Of Morpheus and the Flora
by is1bel
Summary: AU of POA. Voldemort chooses a different servant and a new plan of return. Meanwhile, Harry arrives at Privet Drive and suffers from dreams that make his scar ache, his family has gone mad, and Sirius Black’s out for his blood. From Petunia’s POV, WiP
1. Prologue

Title: Of Morpheus and the Flora   
Author: Isabel Cruz   
Category: General/Drama.   
Rating: PG-13   
Spoilers: PS/SS, COS, POA, OOTP   
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
Summary: An AU branching off at POA, but taking OOTP canon into account. Voldemort chooses a different servant and a different plan of return. Meanwhile, Harry arrives home the summer after his second year and suffers from nightmares that make his scar ache, finds his muggle family gone slightly mad, and there's a deranged convict out for his blood. Told from Petunia's POV, WiP.   
Characters: Petunia, Vernon jr., Harry, Ron and Hermione, various Weasleys, Lily   
Ships: Petunia/Vernon   
Note: For the purposes of this story, Petunia and Lily are assumed to have been twins.   
Note Two: The timeline followed in this story has been modified somewhat from the original in regards to Sirius' escape and the Weasleys' trip to Egypt but is year-wise accurate according to canon; Harry's first year at Hogwarts was 1991, and if Snape was 34/35 during GoF, then MWPP/Lily are/would have been 33/34 during POA.

* * *

**Late October, 1992**

Petunia Dursley was dreaming. 

She was competing in the first annual National Pudding Competition, and her fabulous double-dark chocolate pudding decorated with elegant strawberries was certain to win her first place. Sure enough, a few moments later and Petunia was crowned the first mistress of pudding. The Queen herself was congratulating Petunia, and asking Vernon to take a picture of her and Petunia with the magnificent dessert. 

Petunia smiled and waved to the crowd of fans. Vernon and Dudley were beaming up at her from the front row; Yvonne and Marge were there too, cheering loudly. Even Petunia's parents were in attendance, looking as though they were about to burst with pride. As Petunia basked in the praises of her family and friends, she glimpsed a splash of red from the corner of her eye. Turning, Petunia's smile became a frown as she saw Lily, sitting next to their parents. What was _she_ doing there? Lily, oblivious as always to Petunia's shifts in mood, grinned up at her sister. 

Lily's eyes met Petunia's, and the scene changed. 

Petunia found herself with Lily in the garden of one of their childhood neighbors. They were carefully standing at an angle where the neighbor in question, Mrs. Stevenson, couldn't see the two girls plundering the flowerbeds. The sun was out and shining, but it wasn't hot. Petunia recognized the memory as having taken place in the last July before Lily went to Hogwarts. 

"I don't like tulips," Lily said, breaking the stem of one of the offending plants to show it to Petunia. "They don't open up like normal flowers do, and they're not pretty. Look, even the colors are bad. This one's supposed to be white, but it's gray in places." 

Petunia struggled to remember what she'd said to Lily as a reply. "It's too bad we can't get the roses. I can't believe Mrs. Stevenson moved them under the windows. It's inconsiderate." 

"Inconsiderate? It's downright criminal of her. People should be able to appreciate pretty flowers, not just look at them from a distance," Lily grumbled, crumpling the white-gray tulip. 

Petunia hesitated, and looked up at the house. "Isn't this where the dog chases us away?" 

"You mean Mitzie?" Lily asked. "She's running a little late right now, lots to do in preparation. She'll be along in a second." 

Right on cue, a high pitched bark sounded, and a miniature poodle came tearing through the yard. Petunia and Lily dropped the abused flowers and ran. They sprinted across six gardens before entering their parents' house and dashing up the stairs. The poodle was easy to outrun, but Mrs. Stevenson was doubtlessly en route to the Evans' home, equipped with evidence of the flower destruction and plotting to name Petunia and Lily as the perpetrators. 

"Quick, we need an alibi!" Petunia gasped, pulling a book from the shelf in the room she shared with Lily. "I've been reading all afternoon. You?" 

"Writing in my diary for the past half hour," Lily said, already sprawled on her bed, scribbling furiously in said diary and, Petunia noted with a slight bit of jealously, not at all out of breath. 

Petunia sat on her bed, gripping the book. "They'll be here any minute now," she said, glancing at the door. 

"No, they're not coming this time," Lily said, still writing. "Things are going to be different from now on." 

"No," Petunia said. "Mum and Mrs. Stevenson are about to come in here and yell at us, and we'll spend the next week replanting those awful tulips. The day after that, you'll be getting the letter from Hogwarts." 

"Don't be such a drama queen, Petunia," said Lily, snapping her diary shut. "All that's been taken care of. Now, pay attention. I can only show you once." 

Petunia turned to look at her sister, about to correct her again, when Lily and her bed seemed to flicker. The bed was suddenly much larger, a medieval four-poster bed with red curtains. Lily was no longer an eleven-year-old girl with a messy ponytail, but instead a young woman wearing a black school robe. 

Lily pressed the wall just to the left of her bed in three places, clockwise in the shape of a triangle, each point about six inches from the last. The wall seemed to fold in on itself, displaying a large, ornate metal lock. Lily pulled her wand from her sleeve, and said, "Muto Clavis." 

The tip of Lily's wand changed, stretching and reforming to the shape of an old-fashioned key. Lily pushed the wand-key into the lock, and twisted. The lock clicked and swung away from the wall, revealing a small cavity. Lily placed her diary in the cavity and shut the lock, pulling her wand out. After a few seconds the wand and the wall returned to their former selves without any indication they'd been changed at all. 

Lily put the wand away, and smiled at her sister. "Did you see?" 

Petunia blinked. Eleven-year-old Lily was back, and the diary was gone. "What does all that nonsense have to do with anything?" 

"Absolutely everything," Lily said, standing. "You've got to learn patience, Petunia. Or rather, you've got to remember patience. It's not about the magic" 

"You're not making any sense," Petunia said. "This isn't how things went." 

"I already told you, and we're almost out of time," Lily said. "It's all different now, especially you and me." Lily tilted her head to one side. "You're practically glowing." 

Petunia shook her head. "No, it isn't. I'm the same as I always was." 

"No, you're not," Lily said. As if to prove her point, Lily seated herself next to Petunia. "Here, feel this," Lily took Petunia's hand in her own, and pressed it against Petunia's stomach. "It's too soon for kicks, but he's still there." 

Petunia gasped as she felt a hard bump, tiny as it was, within her body. "Just listen," Lily continued, "and maybe we can hear him." 

Petunia and Lily were silent for a few moments before they were able to hear it. A steady, rapid series of thumps, two right after each other in between beats of silence. 

"You can hear that, right?" Lily asked, searching Petunia's confused expression for conformation. 

Petunia nodded, "But how-" 

"Oh, you know perfectly well 'how'," Lily said. The redhead grinned again. "It's marvelous, isn't it? Second time's the charm and you'll love him just the same, regardless of blood." 

Petunia pushed her sister's hand away. "This is wrong. You're wrong. This is all _wrong_." 

"Petunia, Petunia," Lily said. "You were always such a pessimist. Everything's going to be fine in the end, you'll see." 

Ignoring her sister, Petunia wrapped her arms around her body. "This is wrong," she repeated. "And—and I think I'm going to be ill." 

"Well then," Lily said. "It's time you woke up." 

Petunia woke. 

Vernon's snores and a tangle of sheets, the floor was dreadfully cold, and the next thing she knew Petunia was being sick over the toilet. Her hair was plastered to the side of her face with sweat, and, Petunia noted, as last night's dinner was flushed away and whatever odd dream she may or may not have fled to the recesses of her mind, this was the third time in a week that she'd awoken in such a state. It was past time to see a doctor.

* * *

Nearly two weeks passed before Petunia's appointment with her doctor. She was nauseous every other morning, and would have assumed it was due to stomach flu had other factors not led her to an entirely different conclusion. 

Petunia smoothed her skirt anxiously, giving surreptitious glances to the other patients in the waiting room before returning to her magazine. Trying to guess what awful diseases the disreputable looking brunette in the corner most certainly had kept Petunia from dwelling on the fact that she'd arrived fifteen minutes late for her appointment, due to traffic. It was kind enough of the doctor to squeeze her in on such short notice, and a faulty light had made her late. Petunia Dursley was never late. For anything. Ever. 

Finally, the nurse called her name, and Petunia was directed to a small examination room. She pursed her lips in annoyance, and after the nurse left to fetch the doctor, craned her long neck around the door to see if the good, corner room at the end of the hall was in use. It was. 

Before Petunia could do any snooping, the doctor entered. Doctor Havensford was fairly old, very bald, and had an abnormally short nose, but he'd been with Petunia since she was pregnant with Dudley. 

After the doctor gave Petunia a cursory exam and she described her symptoms, he ordered a nurse to perform a quick blood test and left to see other patients. 

Petunia waited for another fifteen minutes before the nurse returned and ushered her into the doctor's office, where she continued to wait. 

Petunia was getting rather tired of waiting, and was contemplating the morality of peeking inside the folders on the doctor's desk. There wasn't any harm in looking at her own file, was there? And her file might well be one of those on top of the desk. Unfortunately, Doctor Havensford's arrival with her folder in hand precluded any sort of resolution to Petunia's moral dilemma. 

"Well, Mrs. Dursley," Doctor Havensford said, opening Petunia's file on his desk. "According to this, you are about seven weeks pregnant." 

"That is not possible," Petunia said, straightening her posture. "I'm on the pill." 

The doctor frowned. "You've been taking it every day, at the same time?" 

Petunia nodded. "The same brand I've used for years, nothing like this has ever happened before." 

"Have you taken any other medications?" Doctor Havensford asked. 

"Only some allergy pills, over the counter," Petunia said. 

Doctor Havensford appeared oddly triumphant. "That's what did it—happens all the time. Drug interactions." The doctor's expression became serious. "I realize this is an unplanned pregnancy. However, I assume that it is not an _unwelcome_ pregnancy." 

"Oh, of course not," Petunia asserted. "My husband and I have always wanted more children, but when we took in my dear sister's, God rest her soul, orphaned son," here Petunia paused, waiting for her listener to give the sympathetic nod typically received in oral retellings of the Dursley family's selfless act in taking in Harry. After the doctor obliged, she continued, "We found ourselves so caught up in raising both boys—my nephew, despite our efforts, has been something of a problem child—that the subject stopped coming up. But I know Vernon will be simply ecstatic when he hears the news." 

"Well, in that case, congratulations are in order," the doctor said. "Now, first of all, you need to stop taking your birth control pills, and there are certain foods which you should incorporate into your diet…." 


	2. Chapter One

For Disclaimer and other notes, please see the prologue.

* * *

**June, 1993**

Petunia groggily pulled herself out of bed and plodded into the toilet, not bothering with her too-small dressing gown. Two weeks, Petunia assured herself, just two weeks and she wouldn't have any more swollen feet, she could sleep on her stomach, her ribs could recover from repeated kicks, (Petunia couldn't remember Dudley as ever having been so active.) and she wouldn't need to go to the toilet a dozen times a day. 

Dudley was leaving today, Petunia remembered regretfully. One of his friends from Smeltings had invited Dudley on a holiday to Majorca months ago, though Vernon and Petunia were insisting that their son come home early so he wouldn't miss the baby's birth. Her Diddy-kins was growing up so fast, Petunia thought, her eyes misting. It seemed like just the other day Dudley was brought home from the hospital, and already he was going on holidays with friends and getting nervous about what to wear in front of the girls at the beach. 

For Dudley's last breakfast before he left, Petunia decided she'd fix a feast worthy of her growing boy. Petunia also planned to indulge herself, and not to bother with the dishes. Harry would be coming home late that afternoon; he could deal with them. A woman in Petunia's condition ought to be resting, not standing around in the kitchen all day long, she resolved.

* * *

That afternoon found Petunia lounging in the garden, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Next-door to come outside and continue their argument about the new wind chimes that Mrs. Next-door had bought. Mr. Next-door thought they made an awful racket and wanted to have the wind chimes returned, but his wife absolutely loved them and refused to part with the noisy decoration. Petunia suspected that the argument over noise would become moot after the baby was born; a newborn needed its sleep, after all, and the wind chimes _were_ quite loud.

As if it sensed her thoughts, the baby within Petunia gave a sharp kick to Petunia's ribs. She winced and rubbed her enlarged stomach, trying to calm the baby down. A sudden tightening in her abdomen and pull in her lower back made Petunia stiffen, then relax as the sensations dissipated. She'd been experiencing Braxton-Hicks contractions for the better part of a week. Baby was ready to come out, and Petunia was more than ready to have baby come out. Unfortunately, her due date was still weeks away. 

Petunia had spent the past months preparing for her new child's arrival. The most pressing concern was where the baby was going to sleep; the only unoccupied bedroom was reserved for guests, read, Marge, who had plans to visit as soon as the baby was born, and also hinted that she'd be visiting the Dursleys much more often in the coming months. However, there simply wasn't anywhere else for the baby to go. Dudley couldn't very well share his room; he had so little space as it was, and the baby would be up at all hours for the first few months. 

Petunia didn't even consider having the baby share a room with the other boy. Even though Harry was away at least ten months out of twelve, Petunia wasn't about to trust him with her baby during the remaining two. Harry couldn't be sent back to his cupboard either, or his deranged, freakish "associates" might come to Privet Drive and hurt the baby. And this child, Petunia vowed, would be able to grow up without being threatened by magic. 

Therefore, the only conceivable bedroom for the newest Dursley was the guest room. After a brief argument with Vernon, it was decided that the baby would room with its parents for the first few months and then be transferred to the room formerly reserved for Marge. That way Marge could visit with the newborn for a little while but not long enough to overstay her welcome, which Petunia felt Marge tended to do. As soon as Harry could be legally kicked out, the Dursleys would have a guest room again. 

It was just as well she hadn't decorated a new nursery room, Petunia mused. She and Vernon didn't know whether the baby was a boy or a girl yet, preferring to be surprised, and it wouldn't do to design a room meant for a boy and have the baby turn out to be a girl. Secretly, Petunia hoped the baby would be a girl. 

When Petunia was pregnant with Dudley, she and Vernon made a decision: if the baby was a son, then Vernon would name him, and if it was a daughter, then Petunia would pick a name. Dudley had been named after Vernon's father, and in like manner, Petunia planned to christen a daughter Chrysanthemum Rose, Rose having been her mother's name and Chrysanthemum because those were Petunia's favorite flowers. Petunia only wished her own parents had been so original; in a fit of post-delivery hormones, Mr. and Mrs. Evans had named their daughters Petunia Lily Evans and Lily Petunia Evans. It made her shudder every time Petunia had to write her full name. 

The sound of a car door slamming jolted Petunia out of her revere. Vernon had brought Harry back. Petunia's mouth twisted into a small smile as she listened to Vernon tell Harry to "take all that rubbish up to your room and don't even _think_ about shutting yourself up there. There's dishes to be cleaned and your aunt needs you to weed the flower beds." 

Petunia didn't bother to listen for Harry's reply. She adjusted one of the bench's cushions so that she might sit up a bit more comfortably, and waited for Vernon to come outside with her supper. 

Vernon Dursley emerged from the house with more speed than most would attribute to a man of his size. He carried with him a small carton of orange sorbet, a treat with which Petunia had become rather enamored. 

Petunia accepted the proffered sorbet and spoon, and pretended to listen intently to Vernon as he described in painstaking detail precisely why all vegetarians were a bunch of lunatics and how the lot of them ought to be dealt with. When he was done ranting and Petunia was done with her sorbet, Vernon said, 

"Petunia, there's been some trouble at work recently, the Brinkleham account, I've mentioned it before. I'm afraid I have to go in tonight for a strategy meeting." Vernon twirled his mustache nervously with the fingers of his left hand, awaiting his wife's response. 

Petunia frowned, and said, "Another one? It seems as though you've been in quite a few meetings lately." 

"I know—it's been busy at Grunnings, they're thinking about expanding the business—going to start making wrenches to go with the drills. But I promise you, Petunia," Vernon said, looking very seriously into Petunia's eyes, "As soon as the baby's born, I'll take some time off. Maybe we can even go on holiday with Dudley and the baby, just the four of us." 

"That sounds nice," Petunia said. "Yvonne was telling me the other day about a lovely new restaurant she'd discovered in Majorca, with excellent shell fish. And I suppose Mrs. Figg could watch the boy while we're gone." 

"Yes, well," Vernon said, checking his watch, "I've got to be on my way." He collected Petunia's sorbet container, but paused before leaving the garden. "I don't like leaving you here alone with him, especially now, with the baby and all." 

"Don't worry about a thing, Vernon," Petunia said. "He wouldn't dare try anything, not if he doesn't want to be expelled from that school of his." 

Vernon did not appear convinced. "I could drop him off at Mrs. Figg's, if you'd like." 

"Nonsense," said Petunia. "I'll be fine. Besides, I want him to get a start on weeding the rose bushes while there's still some light." 

"All right then," Vernon acquiesced. "Call the office if anything happens." 

"I will. Now go on, you don't want to be late," Petunia said. 

Vernon grumbled a reply, and gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek before leaving. Petunia heard him yelling at the boy in the kitchen, "Aren't you done with those yet? Your aunt needs you in the garden—and don't you dare upset her, or you'll not get any meals for a week!" 

Petunia sighed, and rubbed her belly absently. The baby was doing an awful lot of wiggling; she suspected the orange sorbet was no longer a favorite food of the child. Or perhaps it had grown tired of being outside and listening to wind chimes. Dudley, Petunia recalled, would always fidget when she left the house, and would only calm down once she was back inside and the television was on. Even at such a young age, his preferences were already clearly marked, Petunia thought wistfully. 

Before Petunia could reminisce about her ickle Duddy-kins too much, Harry made his presence known by banging the back door against the side of the house as he entered the garden. He had his back to her, and seemed to be studying the state of the hedges, which, Petunia realized regretfully, were terribly overgrown and were practically being choked by vines creeping over from Mr. and Mrs. Next-door's garden. Petunia's delicate condition meant that her usually pristine garden had been left to the mercies of nature. It would take the boy days, if not weeks, to sort it out. 

Petunia looked her nephew over critically; he'd grown a bit since last summer, but was still rather short and scrawny; he was, as usual, in desperate need of a haircut; his shoulders were slumped and his entire posture suggested that someone had just murdered his new puppy. All in all, Harry presented a fairly depressing picture. He probably wished he was back at that freak school he'd just left. Petunia had no desire to remain outside with a sulking soon-to-be teenager, and furthermore, the baby had become even more agitated. She probably ought to go inside and listen to music and walk around. Provided, that is, her wretch of a nephew stopped lazing about and helped her up. 

Petunia cleared her throat and said, "Harry! If it isn't too much trouble, won't you give me a hand? It isn't as though that hedge won't be there for you to trim tomorrow." 

Harry turned around and whatever sarcastic reply he may or may not have planned to say was lost in his inarticulate response of, "Puh-th-huh?" uttered as soon as he saw Petunia's bulging stomach. He recovered quickly enough, and then asked in a most erudite fashion, "Are you _pregnant_?" 

Petunia rolled her eyes. "No, I've swallowed a bowling ball. Of course I'm pregnant! Didn't your uncle tell you?" 

"No, I don't think he did." Harry shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "When's it going to be born?" he asked. If Harry had any inclination to state that he thought the baby was going to be born in the very near future based on how large Petunia was, he wisely ignored it. 

"Two weeks," Petunia said. "Now, aren't you going to help me up?" 

Harry hesitantly ventured over to his aunt and offered her his hand, which, Petunia was surprised to note, was almost as large as her own. Harry was also stronger than she had supposed, judging by how he pulled Petunia to her feet almost as easily as Vernon did. 

"Do you need—that is, should I get you anything?" asked Harry uncertainly. 

"No," Petunia sniffed. "I'm quite all right on my own." 

Petunia dropped Harry's hand and ventured unsteadily into the house, realizing with annoyance that she'd need to visit the toilet before she could do anything else. Just two more weeks, Petunia repeated to herself, two weeks and she'd be able to hold her newborn son or daughter in her arms… and give him or her a very firm talking to about making her drink such obscene amounts of water.

* * *

It was that ungodly time between late night and early morning when the baby decided sleep wasn't nearly as much fun as dancing a cha-cha in Petunia's uterus. Unfortunately for Petunia, there wasn't much space in said uterus, and this, coupled with Vernon's increasingly loud snoring, prevented her from resting.

To busy herself in her current state of unwilling wakefulness, Petunia climbed out of bed and set about packing a suitcase to take to the hospital. It was something she needed to do, though she still had two weeks—no, thirteen days, Petunia amended after glancing at the clock—before the baby was due. 

The particular bag Petunia was filling with clothes and supplies appeared to be about the size of a briefcase. It was shaped like a suitcase, but smaller, it was pale blue, in perfect condition, except for the inner lining, which was torn up and lumpy in places, and it looked more expensive than it actually was. It had been a gift from Marge when Petunia was pregnant with Dudley, and hadn't been officially used for anything since then. 

Petunia hated it. 

Petunia couldn't bear to even look at the small case, had stashed it in the back of her closet, and happily forgot it existed. A few weeks ago, Petunia went looking for a bag to take to the hospital and rediscovered the horrid thing. Vernon wouldn't hear of buying a new case, especially when there wasn't anything wrong with the one they already had, and as none of the others in the house were suited for Petunia's purposes, she was stuck with the blue suitcase. 

Everything fit inside the suitcase. Perfectly too, Petunia was loath to acknowledge. She shut the offensive case and set it aside. Resisting the urge to yawn, Petunia pulled Vernon's rarely used dressing gown from the closet and put it on. It was too large, even in her pregnant state. The sleeves were two times too long, but Petunia hadn't the patience to roll them. 

Petunia pushed the door to her bedroom open slowly; it had an irritating habit of squeaking. She walked carefully down the hall, pausing only to rap her knuckles against Harry's door—there was an unacceptable amount of muttering audible from within—and proceeded down the stairs to the kitchen, where Petunia poured herself a glass of orange juice. 

As soon as she came home from the hospital, Petunia promised herself, that suitcase was going to be thrown away. Sent to the trash heap, she vowed, along with everything in it.

* * *

"Harry! Watch the bacon—you're burning it. And don't set the rest of the kitchen on fire with your sleeve," Petunia said, supervising her nephew's attempts at making breakfast. She didn't know what had got into the boy; Harry had spent years cooking breakfast for the Dursleys, but the past three days he'd acted completely incompetent. Luckily for Harry, Vernon had gone to work early and got his own breakfast.

How anyone, even Harry, could manage to ruin _toast_, was beyond Petunia's comprehension. But there it was: half blackened, half seemingly uncooked. It was lack of sleep, Petunia determined, which was to blame for her nearly inedible breakfast. 

Petunia didn't usually pay Harry much attention when he wasn't upsetting Dudley, but she could hardly miss how red and puffed the boy's eyes were every morning. He'd been quiet too, rarely speaking unless Petunia or Vernon spoke first. 

"What's the matter with you?" Petunia asked. She was careful not to make it sound as though she was too concerned. She didn't care to hear some sob story about how the boy's girlfriend had broken up with him or anything equally uninteresting. 

Harry, surprised, looked up from his overly crunchy bacon. "Nothing." 

"Don't take that tone with me," Petunia snapped. "You've been sulking ever since you got back, dragging your feet all over the house, staring off into space. It's absolutely intolerable. Explain yourself." 

Harry blinked. "It's nothing, really. Besides," he said, tilting his head, "What do you care?" 

Petunia flinched. "Stop that." 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop doing that." 

"I'm not doing anything." 

"You are, and you know it," Petunia said. "You look just like your mother when you do that. It's unsettling." 

"Really?" Harry's eyes brightened. "No one's ever said that before." 

"Said what?" Petunia asked. 

"That I look like my mum. It's always my dad people compare me to," Harry said. 

"Well, I don't know what 'people' you associate with most of the year, but they obviously didn't know your mother if they can't see the resemblance," Petunia said, avoiding the boy's now curious gaze. "But I take it your kind isn't terribly bright, from what I've seen of them." She stabbed the overly runny eggs with her fork, intent on not mentioning Lily again. 

Harry was quiet for a few moments before saying, "About 'my kind,' some of them are going to be coming here pretty soon." 

Petunia frowned. "What for? Isn't it a bit early for you to leave?" 

"No, they're not coming for me, exactly. It's because of the baby," he said. Before Petunia could protest, he continued, "They've got spe-, I mean, there's a lot of stuff that's been done to the house, to make it so, um, bad people, that is, can't find the house or hurt anyone in it. But the baby living here makes some of the stuff that's supposed to protect the house not work anymore, so they've got to come and fix it." 

Petunia's hand automatically went to her stomach. "I don't want them here. Can't they do it from a distance?" 

Harry shook his head. "It's got to be done directly, and everyone's got to be in the house, too." He bit his lip. "Also, they could do it sooner if they knew if the baby was going to be a boy or a girl. Otherwise, it could be two weeks after the baby's born before they can come." 

"What difference does it make?" A sudden contraction stopped Petunia from saying anything else. 

Harry didn't seem to notice. "It's got something to do with a potion, I think." 

Petunia gritted her teeth as the contraction subsided. "We don't know the sex of the baby," she said stiffly. 

"Why not?" Harry seemed genuinely curious. "Don't you need to know so you can pick out a name?" 

"Vernon and I," Petunia said, "Prefer to be surprised. As for naming our child, I have decided that, should it be a daughter," Petunia paused for dramatics, "She will be named Chrysanthemum Rose Dursley." 

Harry coughed, and began to turn an odd shade of purple. Petunia ignored him. 

"I do hope the baby's a girl," Petunia continued. "Another son would be nice, but Dudley's so sensitive that he might feel hurt if the baby uses his old things. Chrysanthemum, of course, would need all new clothes and toys." 

Harry didn't say anything, but he was still purple, though not as dark as Vernon could become, Petunia noted absently. 

Petunia didn't mind Harry's silence; she was contemplating the set of baby clothes Marge had sent yesterday. They were exact replicas of the baby clothes Marge had given Petunia and Vernon when Dudley was born, which, Petunia discovered, had gone missing; did Marge somehow get hold of the clothes during one of her visits, and now plan on re-gifting them? 

Petunia pulled herself to her feet and left the kitchen, intent on reexamining Marge's latest "gift." Harry didn't seem to notice her departure, though Petunia distinctly heard him have a coughing fit as soon as she had left the room. She hoped he wasn't ill. All that coughing would keep the baby up.

* * *

Six minutes and seven seconds. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Five minutes and forty-six seconds.

Things were not progressing at all as they should. 

At first, Petunia assumed a bad breakfast or stress over Harry almost burning the house down had made her jumpy. An entirely unplanned trip to the loo was also suspicious, but not outside the realm of baby-induced squashed bladder syndrome. The latest, six minutes and nineteen seconds, was a bit more alarming, especially since drinking water and resting didn't appear to be doing a thing to stop the contractions. 

To her credit, Petunia was calm and polite when she rang the doctor's office. She didn't yell at the meddlesome nurse when she explained her symptoms and confirmed that yes, the shortness of breath she'd complained about a week ago had disappeared, and she did think it prudent to go to the hospital as soon as possible. 

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Petunia's treatment of her husband's secretary. 

"In a meeting? _Interrupt_ the meeting! I'm going to the hospital, and I need my husband _now_!" 

"Mrs. Dursley, I cannot simply walk into..." 

"You can and you will 'walk into that meeting'. This is an emergency!" 

"But Mrs. Dursley, your husband isn't even at the office…" 

"_Where is he? I'm having_ his_ child!_" 

"He's at a very important meeting, and isn't answering the phone…" 

"_Then you can tell him he can just_ meet _me at the hospital!_" 

Petunia slammed the telephone receiver down with a surprisingly satisfying crunch. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the receiver and dialed Yvonne's number. No answer. Mrs. Figg; no answer. She was halfway through Marge's number when another contraction hit. 

Marge, Petunia realized as she gulped oxygen and sank into a chair, was too far away to come to Privet Drive within any reasonable amount of time. With trembling fingers, Petunia dialed the hospital and requested that they send a car—no, nothing as flashy as an ambulance—and to hurry, please. 

Petunia swallowed thickly. Things were definitely not progressing as they should. Where was Vernon? This was not at all what they had planned. 

Two contractions and several unrepeatable mutterings as to Vernon's capabilities as a husband later, Petunia pushed herself out of her chair and wobbled to the door to the garden. 

Harry was slouched over the rose bushes, poking at them lifelessly. Petunia refrained from commenting on his laziness, but said, "Harry! Go wash up and bring me my suitcase." 

Harry rocked back onto his heels. "Why?" He asked, in his usual delinquent manner. 

"Because," Petunia pointed to her stomach, "The baby is coming. Go wash up," Petunia blanched inwardly as she took in Harry's charred sleeve, "Change your shirt, and bring me my suitcase. _Now_!" 

Petunia would have liked to say that her sharp tone and delicate situation spurred Harry to leap to his feet in a hurry to obey her. But alas, Harry seemed to be deliberately uninterested. 

"Why? I'm not going to the hospital…" 

"You most certainly _are_," snapped Petunia. "Vernon's in a 'meeting' and I can't ring anybody up… and I am _not_ going _alone_." 

Petunia turned and huffed back into the living room. She gingerly seated herself in Vernon's favorite chair and waited for Harry to bring her suitcase. If he wanted to show up at the hospital looking like a muddy wreck, he could. The boy was twelve years old—or was it thirteen? Petunia couldn't recall if his birthday had already passed or not—and was perfectly capable of dressing himself. 

Nevertheless, Petunia still fleetingly wished she'd made Harry use some make-up on his eyes when the hospital's car finally came. He looked rather ghoulish, the great, dark circles contrasting sharply with the pallid skin of his face. 

Petunia spent several more minutes on the way to the hospital fretting about Harry's appearance; why didn't he wear clothes that fit? Why did he never comb his hair? Petunia might've said something about the hair had she not noticed (as the driver made a particularly sharp turn at a greater speed than was necessary) that the driver, a man several years older than herself, had an _earring_. Stewing over this nonstandard ornamentation was enough to keep Petunia occupied until the car arrived at the hospital. 

As she was being wheeled through the hospital's corridors, Petunia felt herself begin to relax. Vernon would be with her soon, and Dudley was coming home tomorrow morning, anyway. It was doubtful that Dudley would miss the birth. After all, Petunia had been in labor with Dudley for thirty-nine hours. She mentally brushed aside the nurses' jargon that first babies often take much longer than second ones. What did that lot of spinsters know about delivering babies? 

Petunia was just getting settled in her room when she spotted Harry skulking in the corner. He watched the two nurses flit about the room, bringing pillows and cups of ice chips and telephones, and was being generally useless. She had the dumpy-looking nurse send him out to the waiting area, and instructed the dimwitted one to ring her husband's office. Once all the pillows were properly placed, Petunia leaned back, munched the ice chips, opened up a lengthy romance novel, took deep breaths when the contractions hit, and resigned herself to waiting patiently for her husband.

* * *

"Mrs. Dursley, I'm afraid that we're a bit farther along than we anticipated."

"What do you mean, 'a bit farther along'?" 

"Well, it looks like now would be a good time to administer the anesthetics." 

"Doctor, I think I'll know when it's time to 'administer the anesthetics', and it's not now. Tell the nurses to try my husband's office again. When Vernon gets here, we'll have the anesthetics." 

"Mrs. Dursley, given the frequency and duration of your contractions, I am strongly advising you to take the anesthetics _now_. Furthermore, you are already—" 

"I will take the anesthetics when my husband arrives—" 

"—Centimeters dilated, and there's a limited amount of time that the drugs can be administered—" 

"—And not one minute sooner!"

* * *

_Where was Vernon?_

Petunia always prided herself on keeping a level head in stressful situations, but this was really pushing it. And there was to be no pushing of any kind until after Vernon had arrived. 

By her estimations, Petunia had been at the hospital for about two hours when she'd thought she should give into the doctor's recommendation to take the anesthetics. Since it had been approximately one half hour since the doctor had told her it was now too late to take the drugs, and perhaps another two hours of unrecognized labor at Privet Drive, Petunia had been in labor for no more than five hours when the doctor told her it was time. Petunia had never been more certain of anything in her life than she was in the knowledge that _it was_ not _time_. 

Because if it was time, then Vernon was going to miss it. Vernon had promised that he would not miss the baby's birth. Even when he was working late into the night and over the weekends at Grunnings, Vernon had promised he would be there. Vernon Dursley was dependable. Vernon Dursley did not renege on his promises. These aspects of Vernon Dursley were what had attracted Petunia to him in the first place. 

"Mrs. Dursley, I want you to take a deep breath, and to give a small push when the next contraction comes. Do you understand?" 

Petunia half nodded at Doctor Havensford and half cursed the idiot nurse who was telling her how to breathe. As if she'd never breathed before. 

"Very good, Mrs. Dursley. Now, push!" 

Petunia pushed. It was not an enjoyable experience. She noted, abstractly, that the analogy told to curious men that giving birth was a feeling akin to pulling one's lower lip up and over the head was not very accurate. She preferred the other comparison, which explained it as trying to push something the size of a watermelon out an opening the size of a lemon. Vernon had never asked those sorts of questions, Petunia realized. 

"All right, now, relax and breathe." 

Petunia grunted at the doctor. Instead of 'relaxing', she turned to the nearest nurse and said, "Where's my husband? Have you got in touch with him yet?" 

"Mrs. Dursley, I've rung the office several times, they say he'll be here as soon as they reach him…" 

"Time for another push," Doctor Havensford said. "Take a deep breath." 

Petunia obliged, squealing a bit towards the end of the contraction. She couldn't help but think the nurses were having some fun at her expense, making up all these silly sounding 'breathing exercises'. She leaned back on the pillows, and opened her mouth to speak— 

The dumpy-nurse beat her to it. 

"Mrs. Dursley, I don't know where Mr. Dursley is and ringing the office again won't do any good because they know he's got to be here, and I'm sorry you're all by yourself but taking it out on me is hardly…" 

"I am _not_ 'all by myself'!" Petunia said shrilly. "I've got a nephew waiting outside, why don't you send him in? Or are you too stupid to find _him_? Perhaps you and your idiot companion should stop trying to make a fool of me with your ridiculous 'breathing patterns' and do something useful!" 

The nurse was out of the room before Petunia finished her tirade. Another round of fruitless pushing later, and Harry was stumbling into the room, being pulled by an irate nurse. He looked rather confused as he stood awkwardly by Petunia's bed. 

"Don't just stand there like an imbecile, Harry," Petunia gasped. "At least _try_ to act supportive." She grabbed his hand. "And keep those, those _people_ away from me," she whispered, gestured towards the nurses. 

"Here we go again, breathe and push!" 

This time, Petunia squealed throughout the contraction and pushing, and so did Harry. As soon as he was able, he jerked his hand away from Petunia's. 

"Ouch! What'd you do that for? It really hurt!" Harry whined, cradling the abused appendage with his other hand. 

"Hurt? _You_ hurt? How do you think _I_ feel!" Petunia shrieked. 

"If you'd been breathing the way I told you…" 

"Oh, shut up!" Petunia reclaimed Harry's hand, and again whispered to him conspiratorially, "Turn her into something! A bug, make her a bug, and give me something I can squash her with…" 

"Aunt Petunia," Harry sounded scandalized, "I'm not allowed to do that. I don't know how to do that. And—and you want me to…? Are the drugs making you mad?" He peered at her closely. 

"Drugs? They wouldn't let me _have_ any drugs!" 

"Push!" the doctor chirped. 

"Breathe!" 

"Let go of my hand!" 

"Ah-ah-_ouch_!" 

In a brief moment of clarity, Petunia decided that in order to ensure that she never had to go through this again, she'd have Vernon move permanently onto the sofa. 

"It's crowning! One more—push!" 

Petunia screamed; Harry whimpered; a moment later, her child cried. 

"It's a boy!" Doctor Havensford proclaimed, bringing the wailing infant close enough for Petunia to see, but too far away for her to touch. 

Petunia examined her son the best she could through blurry eyes before the nurse whisked him away to be cleaned off. "Go look," she said to Harry breathlessly, "Count his fingers, his toes, are there ten of each?" 

"Of course there are," Harry said. "Why wouldn't there be?" 

Petunia didn't answer him; Vernon chose that moment to come crashing into the room. 

"I'm here, Petunia! Darling, tell me I'm here before…" 

"You missed it," Petunia said. Her vision remained foggy. "You promised you wouldn't, and you missed it." 

"I'm here now," Vernon comforted. "I'll make it up to you, Petunia, I swear I will…" 

"Here he is!" The dumpy-nurse insinuated herself and the now-quiet baby between Petunia and her husband. "Now, if you two will tell me the baby's name for the birth certificate, I can get out of your way." 

Petunia looked at her husband. He swallowed when he saw the baby, tiny and blinking in the unfamiliar light. Vernon said gruffly, "It's Vernon Elderich Dursley, the second." He carefully took the wrapped bundle from the nurse's arms, and gave his son to Petunia. "He's beautiful, Petunia," Vernon choked. 

The nurse bustled away, searching for a pen. She had no way of knowing that as her steady hand recorded the name of the newest member of the Dursley family on the standard certificate, many miles to the north, in a dusty, seldom used room, an ancient quill mirrored her pen-strokes, marking down the name "Vernon Elderich Dursley" in much the same manner it had written "Lily Petunia Evans" over thirty years ago.

* * *

The sound of an annoyingly familiar, yet unidentifiable voice pulled Petunia from her sleep. Blinking blearing, Petunia at first resisted the urge to rub her eyes, but gave in as the scene before her was entirely impossible.

Vernon was stretched and snoring over two of the hospital's standard-issue plastic chairs, Harry was curled uncomfortably against the wall, twitching in his sleep, and Lily Potter, not appearing a day over the twenty-one she'd been when she died, was leaning over the baby's cot and making cooing sounds. Petunia gasped; the facsimile of her sister looked up from her ministrations. 

"Well, it look's like Mummy's finally decided to wake up," the Lily doppelganger said. 

Alarmed, Petunia pulled little Vernon from the bassinet and clutched him to her chest. 

"You," Petunia croaked, "Are a hallucination. Probably brought on by hormones, or the hospital's cheap cleaning products." 

"I am not a hallucination or a dream; I am perfectly real, and I'd like to get back to cuddling my new nephew," Lily said. 

"I rather think that's what most hallucinations say," Petunia said. She shifted baby Vernon's blankets and eyed her sister warily. 

"Oh, so you've had lots of experience with hallucinations, then?" 

"I do not hallucinate!" Petunia sputtered. 

"Did I say you hallucinated? I don't believe I did. Now let me hold the baby," Lily said, reaching for the baby. 

Little Vernon didn't as much as gurgle when Lily lifted him from his mother's arms. "You see? I'm not hurting him," Lily said. "I think he's going to be my favorite nephew." 

The baby caught Lily's thumb in his tiny fist, squeezing with as much strength as a newborn could muster. 

Petunia said, "Give him back, he's probably hungry." 

"In a minute, Petty," Lily said, running her fingers over the baby's thin, blond hair. "He's going to have my eyes, I can tell already." 

"I doubt that," Petunia said, reclaiming her child. Once Vernon was again nestled in her arms, she said, "What're you doing here, anyway? I expected some slight postpartum depression, not visions of my dead sister trying to hog my baby." 

Harry mumbled incoherently from the corner, but still slept. 

"Why don't you go bother him?" Petunia asked. "And leave my children alone." 

"If I could," Lily said, "I would. But it isn't within my power to so much as touch him." The redhead looked at her sister critically. "And don't think for a minute that I'm not angry about what you've done to him." 

"What have I ever done to that boy?" Petunia tightened her hold on baby Vernon. 

"You kept him locked in a cupboard, Petunia! You let your son walk all over him, never gave him any love or affection, let alone clothes that fit. And you lied every time he asked about me and James, _every_ time!" 

"I was _trying_," Petunia spat the word, 'trying', "To keep him _alive_. You think I never read the letter that crackpot tucked into his blankets? That I don't know how much of a target he is, and how his going off to that, that _school_l makes it so much worse? If he had just stayed in his place, lived like a normal person, then neither your son nor my family would have ever known the danger they were in." 

Adult Vernon snorted in his sleep. 

"Besides," Petunia continued, her voice now closer to a whisper, "_You_ gave him to me." 

"I did," Lily admitted. "I made a decision, and if I could do it again, I wouldn't change my mind." She sighed. "But really, Petunia, was it truly too much to expect that you would give Harry a hug when he did something he couldn't explain, and didn't understand, rather than a shove into a closet?" 

Petunia kept her eyes locked with her baby's. "I did only what I thought was best. He never wanted any of that from me, anyway. He needed you, not me. And he knew it." 

"I'm dead, Petunia. I can't be with him. You're the one I asked to take my place," Lily said. 

"Yet neither of us would change anything if we could." Petunia paused. "If you don't mind, why don't you go back to wherever you came from?" She maneuvered baby Vernon so that she could burp him before switching sides. "I'd like some time with my son," Petunia said. 

"Wouldn't everyone?" 

Petunia looked up to reply to her sister, but Lily Potter had vanished.

* * *

"But, I want to watch my shows, Mummy!"

"Dudley, the baby needs his sleep. The television is too loud." 

"But, I _want_ to!" Tears were rolling freely down Dudley's face. His cheeks were bright pink and Petunia thought her heart might break, but, difficult as it was, she could not allow Dudley to watch his shows. 

"Diddy, you can watch them, later," Petunia said. "Your brother needs…" 

"I don't _care_ about my brother!" Dudley wailed. "Why does everything have to be about _him_? It isn't _fair_!" 

"Dudley…" 

"All he ever does is _sleep_! He's _been_ here for _weeks_ and that's all he does. I don't _want_ a brother! _I want to watch my…_" 

"Dudley Dursley!" Petunia thundered. "Do not _ever_ talk about your brother that way! He's little; he needs his sleep. You do not need to watch the television. Go outside, and don't come back until I call you!" 

Dudley shrank beneath his mother's unusually stern gaze, and waddled out of the kitchen and up to his room as quick as he could. Petunia couldn't believe what she'd said; she would make it up to Dudley, somehow. 

For the moment, however, Petunia had to shift her attentions to her other crying son. Little Vernon, Vernie, as Petunia had taken to calling him, was supposed to go down for his morning nap, but Dudley's shows had woken him up from halfway across the house. Petunia shushed Vernie, and walked him slowly around the room. 

The baby calmed down fairly quickly and Petunia laid him in his carrier. It was easier to keep an eye on Vernie when he was close by, not a staircase away, Petunia rationalized. Vernie would normally sleep in his cot upstairs, but today Petunia wanted him close to her. 

Two wizards were coming to Privet Drive. 

Harry had announced that they would be coming during last night's supper, although he'd been giving Petunia funny looks for about a week which led her to suspect he'd known they were coming for quite some time and was worried about how she'd react. Petunia certainly hated having to play hostess to a bunch of freaks, but she knew it was necessary for her family's safety. 

Vernon was against the idea of wizards being at his home, naturally, but there wasn't anything the Dursleys could do about it. Petunia knew her husband was especially worried because he had to be at work and wouldn't be able to keep an eye on things. Apparently, Harry's previous assertion that "everyone had to be in the house" only applied to blood relatives. Dudley had thrown a tantrum about being considered one of Harry's "blood relatives," but he still had to be in the house when the wizards did whatever it was they were going to do. 

Petunia sat at the kitchen table, returning her attention to writing thank-you notes for Vernie's christening presents, and tried to keep from thinking about what would happen when the wizards arrived. Would they hurt Dudley or Vernie? Would they make the Dursleys forget everything when they left? (Petunia had no memory of any wizards coming to do any sort of magic nonsense when the Dursleys took in Harry in the first place.) Why hadn't they come sooner? 

Had the Dursleys been vulnerable during the four weeks since Vernie'd been brought home from the hospital?

* * *

An hour later, whilst Petunia was making it a point to actively not dwell on what the neighbors would think when two weirdly dressed strangers arrived at Privet Drive and made spectacles of themselves, a most peculiar thumping sound came from Harry's room. As Harry was currently engaged in wrestling long-rooted weeds from the garden, Petunia determined that the sound could not have been instigated by him, and it therefore signaled the arrival of the wizards.

Petunia crept nervously to the hallway, unwilling to leave Vernie alone in the kitchen and unwilling to allow a pair of freaks to go unsupervised in her house. Said freaks were clomping down the stairs, being completely inconsiderate of the sleeping baby. They came to a halt at the foot of the steps, seemingly at a loss as to what they were supposed to do next. Petunia, very discreetly, cleared her throat. 

The wizard on the left jumped about three feet in the air, though the witch on the right didn't so much as blink. "Oh, _there_ you are!" the wizard squeaked. 

The wizard was, in Petunia's opinion, not the sort of person she wanted responsible for the protection of her family. He was shorter than Harry; his remaining gray hair was arranged on his head in a way that was supposed to hide his baldness but instead highlighted it; his right eye was at least an inch higher than the left; he carried a large, orange toolbox, which appeared to be welded shut; and he was wearing a blinding yellow tuxedo, with tails and a top-hat. 

"We didn't realize the portkey'd take us straight to Harry Potter's room, sorry for the inconvenience. But _Harry Potter's room_! Oh, _look_ at me, gushing like one of Gilderoy Lockheart's fan-girls. I just can't believe I'm _really_ here!" The wizard accompanied his statements with lots of pointing upstairs in the general direction of Harry's room. 

Petunia tried very hard not to look at him; she suspected all the yellow might give her an even bigger headache than the one she already had. Luckily, the witch intervened before her counterpart could do any more squealing. 

"That'll be enough, Seymour," the witch said, catching the wizard's hand in mid-point. "We're not here for autographs." She turned to Petunia and said, "Our work shouldn't take long, an hour at the most. Is everyone inside?" 

Petunia shook her head. "Harry's in the garden, I'll fetch him," Petunia paused, "You won't be going outside wearing that, will you?" 

The witch bristled. She was dressed in the customary manner of her kind, but still looked abnormal, however nondescript the green robes might be. "We will not be seen by any _muggles_," the witch said in a clipped voice. "My partner's attempts at blending in are for your benefit, not our own." 

Petunia muttered a reply and ducked out of the hallway. Back in the kitchen, she spared a glance at Vernie to make sure he was undisturbed before tapping on the window to call Harry inside. The sooner this nonsense was over, the better.

* * *

If the battery-powered clock in the kitchen was to be believed, then the wizards had only been at Privet Drive for thirty-eight minutes. Petunia felt certain that it had been far longer than thirty-eight minutes. At least, she reflected, Dudley had stopped complaining about his television shows.

Dudley had been somewhat pacified by being allowed to garnish his snack with chocolate sauce, though he was still pouting. He crunched the crisps sloppily, consuming far more chocolate than crisp, and every so often shot sulky glares at his baby brother. 

Vernie was being quiet, content to marvel at the light glinting off a row of spoons for a few moments before closing his eyes again. Petunia held Vernie in her arms, occasionally adjusting the positions of the spoons so that he wouldn't get bored. 

Harry, present in the kitchen only because he could see the wizards working most easily through the kitchen windows, continued to press his face against the glass despite Petunia's orders that he cease this action. Very well, Petunia decided, he could clean the face-prints off the glass himself as soon as the wizards left. 

Harry reluctantly pulled himself away from the window, halfheartedly wiping at the glass with his sleeve to clean it. "They're coming back in," he announced. 

Petunia resisted the urge to tighten her hold on Vernie and squelched a fleeting wish to grab Dudley, who was perfectly all right without her babying him, she assured herself. 

Dudley scooted back from the table and prepared to dive beneath it in the event that he was threatened with a wand. He was pushing extraneous chairs away from his planned route to safety when the wizards entered the kitchen. 

Seymour immediately began trying to bore holes through Harry with his lopsided eyes, as though he was trying to memorize every detail of Harry's person for reasons Petunia was certain she did not want to know. The witch, whose name Petunia hadn't been told, frowned at her partner's behavior. 

"We are finished," the witch said. "I have messaged Professor Dumbledore, and we will be leaving shortly." As she spoke the witch fingered a broken computer joystick, one Petunia recognized as having once belonged to Dudley. If Dudley knew the witch was holding one of his old toys, however useless it now was to him, he didn't let on. 

Harry all but flinched under the yellow wizard's scrutiny, making an effort to mash his unruly hair against his forehead and staring at the floor. 

An awkward silence settled over the room. It was obvious, to Petunia, anyway, that the wizards were going to insist on standing in the kitchen until they left, whenever that was going to be. 

"Well?" Petunia said, distracting Seymour from his unnerving study of Harry. "Why aren't you leaving _now_?" 

"We've got to wait for the portkey," Seymour said. 

Petunia nodded as though she understood. She hadn't the slightest inkling as to what the wizard was saying, but she didn't particularly care, either. Instead, she asked, "Why wasn't this done any sooner?" Petunia glared at Harry for a moment. "I was told it would happen two weeks ago, at the latest." 

The witch answered before Seymour could. "The baby proved to be more of a complication than had been anticipated," she said, looking pointedly at Vernie. 

"What do you mean, 'complication'?" Petunia narrowed her eyes at the witch. 

"Harry Potter didn't tell you?" Seymour exclaimed. He puffed himself up importantly. "It's marvelous, really—" 

"Don't!" Harry said, jerking his head up and looking more awake than he had for a month. "You can't—" 

"—Can't imagine why he wouldn't tell," Seymour continued, his voice drowning out Harry's. "After all," he said. 

"They don't want to know," Harry was saying, though Petunia could hardly hear him over Seymour, who said, 

"It's pretty big news when your son isn't only Harry Potter's cousin, but a _wizard_ in his own right."


	3. Chapter Two

Note: The next chapter will probably be late, as I've started classes again. Hopefully this one's long enough to make up for it.

* * *

Petunia was not lost.

She might not have any idea where she was or where she was going, but Petunia Dursley was not lost. She soothed Vernie in his pram before determinedly turning left, not caring that the street she was now on was many degrees darker and seedier than the one she had just exited.

Perhaps Petunia had got a bit off course, but as far as she was concerned, she was entitled to being a touch irrational, given the circumstances.

After the two freaks had left Privet Drive, Petunia had been in an understandable state of shock. She'd acted on auto-pilot, sending Harry back to the garden, cleaning up after Dudley, feeding and changing Vernie. Petunia was highly tempted to forget that anyone had said anything about her baby, but her rationalizations were halted by Dudley.

What had _happened_ to Dudley, Petunia wondered, to make him act so cruelly? The second Vernon arrived home, Dudley was at the door, informing his father with malicious glee all that had transpired while the wizards were at Privet Drive.

Petunia had listened to the conversation from the kitchen, her ear pressed against the door. Vernon was shocked, of course, and Dudley had to help him into a chair in the living room. Dudley then explained his plan, a plan to "make everything like it used to be," in his words.

Dudley proposed giving his brother away to an orphanage, and telling anybody who asked that the baby had tragically died without warning. To Petunia's horror, Vernon _agreed_. She could not believe what she was hearing.

Petunia had burst into the living room, demanding an explanation for what Vernon had just said. What followed was the most spectacular row Petunia had ever had the misfortune in which to participate.

At first, Vernon couldn't understand why Petunia wouldn't just go along with Dudley's idea, and Petunia couldn't understand why Vernon _would_ go along with Dudley's idea. Petunia couldn't bear to part with her son, and who knew what harm might come his way in an orphanage?

Vernon countered with who knew what harm might come _Dudley_'s way should another wizard be allowed to live with him? What could a _baby_ do to hurt Dudley? Petunia had asked. In that same breath, Petunia rejected the notion that she would ever put one of her children above another, and how could Vernon?

So it began.

Petunia yelled at Vernon for hardly being around while she was pregnant and after the baby was born, despite his promises to the contrary.

Vernon yelled at Petunia for spending all her time with the baby and neglecting him and Dudley.

Petunia accused Vernon of putting work above his family, and missing the baby's birth, for which there was no excuse.

Vernon accused Petunia of purposely not calling him sooner, before his meeting.

Petunia asked just what was so _very_ important at Grunnings that kept Vernon away at all hours of the day and night, and why he felt it necessary to always shower as soon as he got home from yet another "surprise meeting?"

Vernon blamed Petunia for creating a freak son in the first place.

Petunia, speechless, turned her back on Vernon and marched up the stairs. She gathered up Vernie's supply bag, pulled her amazingly still-asleep baby from his cot, threw clothes blindly into a suitcase, and went downstairs. She arranged Vernie and his things in his pram, and went out the door without another word to her husband.

Petunia didn't have a destination in mind; she was only concerned with getting as far away from Privet Drive as possible.

Now, hours later, (though Petunia could hardly note the passage of time) her feet ached, her arm hurt from carrying the suitcase, her eyes were raw and red, and she had no idea where she was. Poor Vernie was asleep again, at least. With a heavy heart, Petunia realized he had to be hungry and in need of changing. What kind of mother would ignore her baby, regardless of her state of mind?

Petunia slowly woke from her stupor. Glancing about her surroundings, Petunia failed to see any familiar buildings or people. The shops that were open looked uninviting, and the area seemed caked with grime.

Petunia turned the pram gently into the next alleyway, to collect her thoughts and look Vernie over more thoroughly. The alley was dark, dank, and contained overstuffed dumpster, but was surprisingly better smelling than the street she'd left.

She leaned over the pram to gaze at Vernie's sleeping form. How could Vernon even think of giving him up? What harm could something so small, so precious, cause?

A newspaper blew past the carriage. Petunia stiffened; the hairs on the back of her neck rose. _Something, _no_, someone was there._

Petunia turned. No more than a half dozen feet away stood a figure of nightmares.

It wore a long, black robe. A skeletal mask, grinning obscenely, obscured its face. In one hand, it held a wand.

Recognition flared in Petunia's mind. As the robed figure stepped forward, she stepped back, keeping her body in front of Vernie's pram.

"I know what you are," Petunia's voice trembled.

"How nice," it hissed. "We won't need to bother with introductions."

There was something familiar about that voice, but before Petunia could do anything else, the figure lazily lifted its wand and said, "_Imperio_."

Petunia floated. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know who she was. And she didn't care. A voice called to her from far away. Curious, Petunia followed it.

And then she came crashing back to herself.

Somehow, the dumpster had moved. No more than a few feet, but quickly enough that it must have knocked the dark wizard off his feet.

Petunia, however, didn't stop to wonder how the wizard came to be sprawled on the filthy ground, or how she'd got so close to him that the dumpster had grazed her arm. She barely noticed Vernie's high-pitched cries.

Instead, Petunia darted around the dumpster. She kicked the downed wizard as hard as she could, in what she supposed was his stomach. The wizard gasped. Petunia stomped on the fingers of the wizard's wand-holding hand. The wand came loose from the wizard's formerly tight grip, and rolled into the shadows.

Dimly recalling that most wizards were useless without their wands, Petunia took a much-needed breath. Anxious moments were spent rooting in the dumpster for a suitable weapon. The wizard grunted, and tried to get up.

Finally, Petunia's hand closed around a broken umbrella. She whacked the wizard in the head once, then twice. He rolled onto his back.

"You," he wheezed, "Will die _slowly_ for this."

Petunia was disinclined to agree.

She hit the wizard again with the umbrella, and this time his body relaxed into unconsciousness.

Petunia backed away from the robed body, becoming aware of Vernie's crying. Still clutching the umbrella, Petunia carefully turned the pram around, her suitcase dragging awkwardly behind. She shushed the baby vainly; Vernie had no plans to quiet down. Petunia rolled the pram to the mouth of the alley, pausing only to give the unconscious wizard another vicious kick.

She was just about to pick a direction when she felt a second chill course through her body, stronger than the first. Petunia craned her neck around.

Five, no six, no, there were more than that, dark robed figures appeared behind her in the alley. There were too many of them. Petunia hadn't time to scream; a loud _bang!_ sounded from the street.

A huge, purple monstrosity lunged at the alley. Petunia was tempted to take her chances with the wizards, until she saw the bus' doors swing open.

Harry Potter stood just inside the bus, calling to her frantically. Petunia wasted no time in pushing the pram inside, knocking over a pimple-faced youth. She didn't notice the curse that singed her hair or feel the jolt as the bus disappeared from the street.

At some point, Petunia realized she'd picked Vernie up from the pram and sat down on something soft. Oblivious to the ambient chatter, Petunia laid Vernie out on the bed and set about changing him.

Familiar actions calmed Petunia and her son. Vernie was still hungry, but at least he wasn't uncomfortable. Petunia wrapped the baby in blankets, and held him close to her chest.

The rest of the world slowly came into focus.

From what Petunia could make out through the dim lighting, there were five other beds on the bus, and a staircase leading to parts unknown. At the head of the bus two persons sat in armchairs; one of them, Petunia supposed, had to be a driver of some description. Harry was leaning between the armchairs. All three of the wizards (for who else would wear such ghastly purple clothing?) seemed to be having a heated discussion.

After a few more bumps and jolts, some sort of consensus was reached amongst the wizards. Harry broke away from the armchairs and plopped down on the bed across from Petunia's. The pimpled wizard, whom Petunia recognized as the one she'd about run over, poured a jug of water over a fire smoldering on what should have been a dashboard.

"They're taking us to an inn," Harry said. Petunia couldn't help but notice that this Harry seemed indescribably different from the one who'd been at Privet Drive for the past month. "It'll be safe there," he added.

Petunia opened her mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. She swallowed and tried again, "How did you find me? Why?"

Harry shrugged. "It felt like the thing to do. I didn't even know you'd gone for about an hour. When I came back inside, Uncle Vernon told me to get my things and leave, and never to come back. So, I packed and left. Wandered around the neighborhood for awhile, just when I'd given up on finding you, this thing popped up and offered me a ride. I'd thought I'd better…. Well, there was this other thing that was chasing me so the Knight Bus seemed like a good idea at the time."

So that's what they call this purple contraption, Petunia thought.

"Anyway," Harry continued. "I had to wait ages for all the other passengers to get sorted out before Ernie and Stan could look for you. After that, a simple locating spell did it."

"Did Vernon say anything else?" Petunia asked, her voice perilously close to cracking. "Can't we just go home?"

Harry hesitated. "I don't think that's the best idea," he said softly. "Maybe take a few days off, and then you can go back. It's, it's too much, too soon."

Petunia closed her eyes, the words Harry didn't say cutting her more deeply than those he did.

"He'll not have me back, will he?" Petunia whispered.

"No, that's not it at all," Harry interjected. "He didn't mean…"

"No," Petunia said. "He did. I won't give up my baby. He knows."

"He'll come 'round…"

The bus came to a violent halt, effectively silencing Harry. The pimple-faced wizard stood and announced, "The Leaky Cauldron, London." He pulled the lever to open the door, and began unloading Petunia and Harry's things.

Petunia shivered in the cold night air. She almost missed seeing the door Harry and the conductor pushed the pram through.

Petunia and Vernie were whisked upstairs quickly by the inn's proprietor, followed closely by Harry and his floating trunk.

As Harry and the innkeeper had a whispered conversation in the hallway, Petunia inspected her room as thoroughly as she could. Everything _seemed_ clean and in order, though Petunia could have sworn she'd heard the mirror snore. Fortunately, she was too tired to care.

Harry knocked once to tell her he'd be across the hall.

Petunia set about readying herself for bed. She snorted in a most unDursleyish fashion when Petunia saw she'd accidentally brought the hated blue suitcase; the irony in it was oddly amusing.

Finally, Petunia settled on the bed with Vernie in her arms. As she fed him, Petunia allowed herself to see for the first time that her son's eyes were indeed a most unusual shade of green.

* * *

It was far too soon to be awake.

Petunia couldn't have managed more than a few hours of sleep, though Vernie was mercifully quiet and hadn't cried once since they'd arrived at the inn. However, she still tossed and turned all night (carefully, though; Vernie was nested in pillows next to her on the bed, and it wouldn't do for him to be accidentally smothered) and by now sleep was definitely out of the question as the curtains weren't doing a thing to keep the morning sun out.

Petunia groggily pulled herself out of bed, stretching gingerly. Yesterday had left her arms and legs quite sore. Naturally, her movements caused Vernie to stir, and Petunia spent the next hour tending to him. Once Vernie was taken care of, Petunia tried to fix her hair to go downstairs, but she was rather rudely interrupted.

"That's not a very flattering style, dearie. Don't you have any Sleekeasy's?"

Petunia whirled around. There wasn't anybody in the room besides herself and Vernie. "Who said that?"

"I did, of course."

The person who'd spoken wasn't a person at all; the mirror didn't even have a face, but a ripple near the bottom, which sort of rolled when it "spoke."

"But you're a _mirror_," Petunia said, taking a step away from the talking glass.

"So?"

"So? _So_!" Petunia sputtered. "Mirrors don't talk. They are inanimate objects."

"_Inanimate_? I'll have you know there's plenty of people who'll tell you that I'm the life of any party. _Plenty_ of people," as the mirror's voice rose, the ripple in the glass expanded and Petunia's reflection became short and bulgy. "How _dare_ you insinuate that I'm—hey, stop that!"

Petunia had grabbed a towel and was tucking it around the mirror's edges, covering the glass. "Mirrors do not talk," she muttered. "I am not having a conversation with a mirror."

Gathering up Vernie, Petunia exited the room. She did not hear the mirror protest, "You can't do this to me, I have a _contract_," because mirrors are inanimate objects. Mirrors do not talk. Of that much, Petunia was certain.

Downstairs, Petunia could hardly restrain a shocked gasp. She was in a _bar_. A filthy, smoky, filled with non-respectable human beings (as well as some that quite obviously weren't human), completely inappropriate place for a mother and her baby, _bar_. Worse, it was a bar with _wizards_ in it. Wizards dressed in funny clothes, and there was a fire too, in _July_.

It was enough to make Petunia want to run back upstairs, but that desire was squelched when she remembered the mirror—not to mention how hungry she was. Petunia scanned the smallish crowd briefly, spotting Harry at the table farthest from the bar. She quickly joined him, giving all of the robe-wearing people a wide berth.

Petunia pushed several newspapers out of the way, clearing a section of the table. "Harry, you've made a mess," she said.

Harry jumped. "I didn't see you come in," he said, adjusting his glasses.

"What is all this rubbish, anyhow?" Petunia shifted Vernie to her right arm, and picked up one of the newspapers. Ignoring the picture, which was not in any way moving, because pictures do not move, Petunia read, "Black Still At Large."

"I'm trying to get caught up," Harry said.

A waitress came and placed a plate of steaming food in front of Petunia. Petunia was about to protest when Harry interrupted her,

"I didn't think you'd want to use the menu," he said, gesturing to a cage on the floor near the entrance, in which several winged parchments were fluttering about, trying to escape.

Petunia grudgingly agreed, though she looked the food over carefully, searching for abnormal additives.

"Here, let me hold him so you can eat," Harry offered, reaching for Vernie.

Petunia looked from the plate of food to her son; it was somewhat difficult to eat one-handed while a baby grabbed at your hair, and Petunia was having trouble remembering the last time she'd eaten. "All right," she said.

Easier said than done; Harry clearly had no idea how to hold a baby, and Petunia's instructions didn't seem to be getting through to him. Finally, she settled for having Vernie lean halfway onto Harry's shoulder, a bit higher up than he'd be if he were being burped.

"Support the head," Petunia reminded.

For his part, Vernie gurgled happily at Harry's new face. Vernie swung his chubby arms around Harry's glasses, too young to be dexterous enough to get a good hold on them, but still trying. Unfortunately for Harry, he hadn't a free hand with which to defend his glasses.

As soon as the waitress took her plate away, Petunia reclaimed Vernie and Harry was able to clean his glasses.

Petunia and Harry sat in silence for a few minutes, Harry reading newspapers and Petunia trying to entertain Vernie so that he'd stop looking at the wizard-filled bar. Eventually, Petunia said,

"What happens now?"

It wasn't the sort of question Petunia usually asked; she normally made it a point to know exactly what was going to happen when, but circumstances being what they were, she was at a loss. Petunia liked being in the dark about the future even less than she liked talking mirrors, particularly when the future no doubt included wizard elements.

Harry swallowed, as though he'd known the question was coming and was steeling himself against an inevitable backlash. "My headmaster owled me earlier, and he says we can't go back to Privet Drive."

Petunia's head snapped up. "Why? Apart from… Well, I don't see why I wouldn't be able to, if…"

"No, it's not that," Harry said. "He wouldn't give me details, but he said it isn't safe for me, you, or the baby."

"Not safe?" Petunia's voice caught in her throat. "But what about Dudley?"

"He's still safe," Harry assured his aunt. "It's just us that shouldn't go back."

"Oh," Petunia said softly. Then, louder, she said, "Where are Vernie and I to go, then? This establishment hardly seems appropriate." Petunia briefly considered some hotels in London with which she was familiar.

"So, we're going to go stay with my friend's family," Harry said.

The visions of room service and normal menus evaporated from Petunia's mind. "What? Not a friend from, from _school_?"

"My headmaster says it's the safest place we can go, apart from Hog-, er, my school," Harry said. "And they're not strangers, really. You met some of them last year," he added.

"Last year?" Petunia's voice became rather faint.

"They came to get me, remember?" Harry grinned. "They've all got red hair, and they had a flying—oh, I s'pose that wouldn't be, well, from _your_ perspective, anyway…" Harry trailed off, fussing with his stack of newspapers. "Anyway, they should be here soon. I think they're borrowing a car, because you and the baby can't use Floo powder."

Petunia frowned. She didn't fancy having some wizard dictate her life, not to mention live with a family of the same. But did she really have a choice? Lily's world hadn't been safe for _Lily_, let alone Petunia and an infant. Going back to Vernon… well, she couldn't agree to his terms, and even if she could, would it make any difference? Looking at her baby, Petunia couldn't imagine giving Vernie up—which meant she had to follow the orders of a nameless, faceless headmaster whose only recommendation came from Harry. And Harry'd been in the care of his headmaster for two years, and he wasn't dead or horribly disfigured, yet.

Noticing that Vernie was nodding off, Petunia left Harry to his newspapers and went back to her room. At least one of them was taking this in stride.

* * *

"Aunt Petunia? Are you in there?"

Petunia yawned; she'd only intended to rest her eyes for a moment, which had inadvertently become forty-five minutes, according to her watch. Vernie was awake and staring at her with his unsettling green eyes.

"Yes, Harry?" Petunia called, not feeling terribly inclined to get up to answer the door.

"The Weasleys are here," Harry said. "We've got to leave now."

Petunia swallowed. "I'll be out in a minute," she said.

There wasn't anything to pack other than a few of Vernie's supplies. Petunia checked to see if Vernie needed to be changed (he didn't) and fixed her hair as best she could without a mirror (because there wasn't a mirror in the room, never mind the oddly hung towel over the dresser, which was not whimpering).

Petunia held Vernie with one arm and opened the door with the other.

"Ready?" Harry asked.

Petunia nodded. She was not alone with Harry and Vernie in the hallway; a tall, bald man and a much-taller-than-Harry redheaded boy were also waiting. Petunia vaguely recognized the man, but couldn't recall having met the boy.

"Arthur Weasley," the man said, shaking Petunia's free hand with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. "It's nice to meet you. Pity it couldn't be under better circumstances, but don't worry about a thing; I can assure you that my home is completely safe for muggles."

"Hello," Petunia said. A part of her desperately wanted to back away and slam the door, but reason won over emotion; it might not be the best idea to alienate someone who was capable of turning her or Vernie into a toad, particularly when she was to be a guest in his home.

A few minutes later, Petunia followed Harry, the Weasleys, and floating luggage down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Harry's friends had indeed arrived via car, a nondescript, black sedan. Petunia worried needlessly about fitting Harry's trunk and Vernie's pram in the boot, as it turned out there was more space inside the car than one would think. Petunia tried not to think about the source of this phenomenon.

The car ride went suspiciously quickly; not a single red light stopped them, and the car had an uncanny knack for always being in the good lane. Not to mention the blurring scenery, which gave Petunia a slight headache when she looked out the window. Vernie hadn't even fallen asleep in his car seat when they arrived at the Weasleys' home.

Every rational cell in Petunia's body told her that a house like the Weasleys' just _couldn't_ stay upright, but somehow, it did. Petunia decided she'd better get used to not thinking about why things behaved so oddly if she didn't want to drive herself mad.

No sooner had Harry got out of the car when a plump, red-haired woman barreled out of the house and seized Harry in what must have been a bone-crunching hug. The woman spent several minutes fussing over Harry before she turned to Petunia.

"Hello," the woman beamed, smiling at Petunia for no discernable reason. "This must be Harry's little cousin," she said.

The woman was smiling at the baby, Petunia realized.

"This is my wife, Molly," Arthur interjected, putting his arm 'round the woman. "And this," he continued, "is Ginny, our youngest."

Petunia hadn't noticed the girl come outside. Like all the other Weasleys Petunia had met, she had red hair. Petunia estimated that the girl couldn't be much younger than Harry, though she'd severely overestimated the age of Ron, whom Petunia thought of as too tall for thirteen.

"Oh, my," Arthur said, looking at his watch. "I'm due back at the Ministry already. I'll see you at dinner," he said to Molly, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Petunia blinked, and Arthur disappeared. She felt another headache coming on.

"Now," Molly clapped her hands. "Ron, help Harry's aunt with her things; Ginny, you show her where your room is; and Harry, there's a snack waiting for you in the kitchen."

The girl's room was on the third landing. It wasn't flashily decorated, Petunia was relieved to see. The wallpaper was pale and faded, a bay window overlooked the Weasleys' back garden, a disorganized bookshelf took up a large corner of the room, a cot had been set up for Vernie, and a large trunk sat at the foot of the only bed in the room. "Don't worry," the girl said, sensing Petunia's thoughts as she eyed the bed. "I'm moving down with Percy."

Petunia didn't ask who Percy was; the girl and her brother left to let Petunia get settled.

Vernie took his cue to cry as soon as the girl had left. Petunia dutifully fed and changed him, growing increasingly worried about the sporadic banging sounds coming from upstairs. Aside from bringing the already unstable house down, the noise would keep Vernie from sleeping.

After she burped him, Petunia carried Vernie downstairs. He would only cry if she left him alone with the strange noises, and Petunia didn't want to be too far away from her baby in a house full of weirdoes.

Petunia's nose led her to the kitchen, where a number of dishes seemed to be washing themselves over the sink. There was a lit fireplace, despite the July heat. Petunia determinedly avoided looking at the dishes and turned her attention to the woman seated at the table.

Molly was reading pieces of parchment at the table, occasionally flicking her wand at the dishes. Petunia cleared her throat.

"Yes?" the witch asked, her attitude towards Petunia considerably cooler than it had been the hour before.

"May I use your telephone? I'd like to get in touch with my husband," Petunia said, not quite sure what she'd done to offend Molly.

"'Telephone'?" Molly's brows furrowed. "We haven't got a 'telephone'."

"You haven't?" Wizards were more backward than Petunia'd thought. "But, I need to speak with my husband."

"You can't just use an owl?"

"I'd rather not," Petunia said. "I left last night—and he hasn't any idea where I am." Petunia willed herself not to think about the wizard she'd met in the alley. So far, no one had asked her about what had happened, and Petunia was more than willing to forget it.

"Oh!" Molly's expression morphed to one of sympathy. "I'll ask my husband."

Petunia prepared herself to see the witch vanish as her husband had, but Molly did something else entirely. She tossed something onto the fire, and said, "Arthur Weasley's Office." Then, the witch _put her head into the flames_. It was all Petunia could do not to faint; as it was, she all but fell into a chair, startling Vernie.

Molly didn't seem to think anything was amiss. She chatted with an unseen audience, not paying any mind to the fire. Petunia tried not to hyperventilate; she was certain she smelled burning flesh.

After a few minutes of conversation, Molly removed here head from the fireplace, and square-ish object materialized in the flames. The witch plopped the old-fashioned rotary phone on the table in front of Petunia.

Petunia stared at Molly; she seemed amazingly unharmed for someone who'd just tried to barbecue her head.

"Have I got soot on my face?" Molly asked, dusting off her shoulders.

Realizing that this was another one of those things that she was going to have to ignore, Petunia shook her head. Examining the telephone more closely, Petunia said, "Where's the cord?"

"The 'cord'?"

"To plug into the wall, to make the telephone work," Petunia said.

"Why don't you try using it without a 'cord'?" Molly asked.

Petunia frowned, but picked up the receiver anyway; she'd never seen a wireless rotary phone, but there wasn't any harm in trying. Sure enough, there was a dial tone.

Petunia awkwardly tried to rotate the dialer, holding both the receiver and Vernie.

"Let me," the witch said, lifting Vernie from Petunia's arm. Molly was far more adept at holding babies than Harry was, though Vernie yawned sleepily rather than investigate the new face.

After a few clumsy mis-dials, Petunia waited anxiously for someone to answer the phone at Privet Drive. She counted the rings, one, two, (Vernon was at work, or did he take the day off?), three, (where was Dudley?), four, five, and the answerphone clicked on. The message she'd recorded herself when the machine was new sounded alien in Petunia's ears.

Petunia left a message, a highly watered-down version of the events of last night and that day, being sure to mention as often as possible that she was being told what to do by someone else and that she would very much like to come home, if such a thing were possible. The tape ran out before she finished.

"All finished?" Molly asked, bouncing Vernie gently up and down.

Petunia nodded. Molly returned Vernie to his mother.

"He's falling asleep," Molly said. "Why don't you put him down for a nap before the aurors get here?"

"Aurors?" Petunia vaguely remembered Lily having mentioned aurors a time or two, though she hadn't the faintest idea what they were.

"To interview you about last night," Molly said. "Dumbledore arranged for the Ministry to send a team as soon as Harry contacted him. The Death Eaters were all gone by then, of course." The witch wiggled her wand at the dishes, and they stacked themselves noisily on the countertop.

"Oh." Petunia looked down at Vernie, who had stirred at the unexpected sound. Petunia said, "My son ought to sleep, but it's so loud upstairs." She didn't say that she'd prefer not to lose sight of him in an unfamiliar house filled with abnormal people; who knew how the witch might react?

"Loud? How do you mean, 'loud'?"

"It sounds like fireworks, almost, but inside," Petunia said. "He'd be scared up there, all by himself…"

"Fireworks, eh?" Molly didn't seem to be paying attention to Petunia anymore. "If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand—wasting their time with nonsense—should be studying for their owls," Molly muttered, her eyes flashing.

The witch opened her mouth to yell, but saw Vernie and stopped. With a wave of her wand, Molly disappeared from the kitchen.

Petunia scarcely had time to work her brain around the other woman's departure before an almighty crash sounded from somewhere in the house; a moment later, two redheaded blurs shot through the kitchen and escaped outside. Molly reentered the kitchen through the doorway.

"It'll be plenty quiet for him, now," Molly said. "Why don't you take him upstairs and we can have a cup of tea before the aurors arrive?" The witch's eyes still held a rather predatory gleam

Petunia complied, though she still didn't like leaving Vernie alone and she didn't trust the weird baby-monitor the witch had given her. It looked like an ordinary blue marble, but Molly insisted it would turn red if Vernie cried.

Molly hovered over the fire, waiting for the pot to boil. Petunia, not particularly keen on making conversation or knowing what to say if she were, sat at the table and twisted her wedding ring around her finger. It fit more loosely than it had for some time; her hands had swelled while she was pregnant with Vernie.

The tea was served. Petunia drank hers in small sips. It wasn't as though the tea tasted loathsome, but Petunia wasn't sure if she should trust the witch not to poison her. Drinking tea in the kitchen of a shabbily dressed witch wasn't what Petunia had in mind for her last moments.

"Harry's awfully skinny, don't you think?"

Petunia looked at Molly quizzically. What was she getting at? "He's always been that way," Petunia said.

"Didn't you feed him?" Molly frowned at Petunia, her fingers grazing her wand, which stuck out of her pocket ever so slightly.

Petunia gulped. "Of course we fed him—Harry didn't have much of an appetite when he was small—and, well, I never spent any time with the family of Lily's husband, but my parents were both short and rather slight. (That sort of thing can skip a generation, you know.) Some boys are just skinny, no matter what."

Molly didn't seem convinced.

"And Harry never returned from school much bigger than when he left," Petunia said. "He eats however much he likes there, doesn't he?"

The witch's fingers returned to her teacup; Petunia relaxed. But, Molly wasn't quite finished yet.

"What about Harry's clothes?" Molly asked. "He hasn't anything that fits."

"Expenses," Petunia explained, "my husband's salary," pausing, Petunia did some quick arithmetic in her head, and changed tactics. "I didn't want Dudley to get the idea that we were favoring Harry over him."

Molly snorted

"I know what that's like," Petunia said. "My parents always favored Lily. I didn't want Dudley to go through the same thing, and besides, Dudley's been a bit bigger than Harry all his life, and it seemed inefficient not to reuse his old clothes. Why spend more money when there are perfectly good clothes already available?"

Petunia got the feeling that the witch wasn't at all convinced. Then again, Petunia wasn't about to tell Molly that she'd used hand-me-downs so that she wouldn't have to take Harry shopping.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how Petunia's thought about it, the fire chose that moment to flare and someone tumbled into the kitchen.

A dark skinned wizard with graying hair righted himself and dusted off his sooty robes. There was some sort of badge fastened to his left breast, but Petunia wasn't close enough to read it.

"Oh, _Gordon_," Molly said, leaping out of her chair with more swiftness than Petunia would've thought possible. "It's so good to see you again!" Molly hugged the wizard before he could escape. "It's been ages, hasn't it?"

"Not too terribly long, last August, I believe," the wizard said, disentangling himself from Molly. "Congratulations on Arthur's win, by the way. It couldn't have happened to more deserving folk."

"Thank you, we had a lovely stay in Egypt with Bill. Is Jonas with you today?" Molly asked. "He isn't ill again, is he?"

"Resting after last night," Gordon said. "We were still at the scene until about an hour ago. Every few hours we get called away because someone supposes he saw Sirius Black peering over a hedge."

Molly nodded sympathetically. "Please, have a seat—would you like some tea? I'll go fetch Harry."

Molly went outside, and Petunia was alone with the wizard. Petunia shuddered involuntarily; she wasn't sure what bothered her more, the puckered scar across the wizard's neck, evidence of an attempted throat slashing, or the fact that she recognized that the scar was evidence of an attempted throat slashing.

Gordon said, "Why don't we go ahead and begin before Harry gets here?"

Petunia nodded.

"All right, then," Gordon said. "Let's start from when you left the house…"

Petunia told her side of the events of last night. Her memory was fuzzy in some places, like how she managed to first incapacitate the dark wizard. Gordon took notes with a quill, asking questions whenever Petunia trailed off.

Being interviewed by an auror was a draining procedure, Petunia determined after Gordon finally left. It seemed as though he'd asked the same questions over and over, and checked her responses against Harry's. The auror spent three hours at the Weasley's home.

Vernie'd woken up about halfway through the questioning, and insisted on being walked around the kitchen so he could get a good look at everything. Vernie was being rather fussy, protesting whenever Petunia tried to sit down and rest. Petunia felt a bit fussy herself when Arthur appeared out of thin air, followed by yet another redheaded boy. Honestly, did witches and wizards think doors were only for decorative purposes?

Dinner was not the peaceful affair Petunia had grown accustomed to at Privet Drive. Nine people crowded around the too-small table, in addition to Vernie in a carrier Molly had somehow produced. Plates of food floated above the table, four conversations were going at once, and the girl who was lending out her room got turned into a platypus no less than three times during the course of the meal. The twins, the supposed malefactors, were sentenced to clean the dishes.

By the time she went to bed, Petunia was fairly overwhelmed. She felt certain she'd never get all the names of all the Weasleys straight. Ron and Percy looked terribly similar, except one of them wore glasses and an obnoxiously shiny badge, though Petunia couldn't recall which. As far as the twins went, Petunia wondered if she should even bother with both their names, as she'd never be able to tell them apart. Also, there were two older sons who Petunia hadn't met; fortunately for her, they'd already left home. At least there was only one girl. Jean, wasn't that her name?

* * *

The next morning, Petunia wasn't sure what to do with herself. Vernie was asleep. Harry was off with the rest of the Weasley brood, practicing sports or something. Arthur was at work, and Molly was knitting. Petunia had already searched the girl's room the night before, allowing her distaste for magic rubbish to be overwhelmed by her desire to snoop. Unfortunately, the girl was either frightfully boring or highly adept at hiding her personal effects.

Petunia wandered around the Weasley's garden, disappointed at the distance between it and any of the neighbors' houses. She couldn't even be entertained by the television: the Weasleys didn't have one.

Petunia sat down on a large rock. The garden was all right. Inside the house there were self-cleaning dishes, strange noises, people getting turned into funny looking mammals, and ticklish furniture. In the garden at least she could turn her back to the house and put out of her mind the fact that it was probably held up by magic.

The garden was more overgrown than even Petunia's had been at the beginning of summer. Vines and weeds were more prevalent than flowers, and the grass was several times taller than it ought to have been. But it was quiet, and for a moment Petunia could forget her circumstances. She sighed and shifted on the rock. It'd be more comfortable to sit in a chair, but Petunia didn't care to get one.

Petunia stiffened. Something had brushed past her ankles. She steeled herself and looked down, expecting to see an icky garden snake. Instead, she saw a potato. The potato turned to stare at Petunia. Not used to making eye contact with vegetables, Petunia screamed.

The potato blinked. Petunia screamed again.

Petunia started towards the house, but a line of potatoes with legs blocked her. She continued screaming.

Having heard the commotion, Molly ran out of the house, wand in hand. "What? What's the matter? Where are they?"

Petunia had never been so glad to see a witch. Too out of breath to speak, she pointed at the potatoes.

"Gnomes? I don't under—" Molly frowned at the potatoes. "Shoo! Get out of here." Molly waved her wand threateningly, sending sparks at the potatoes.

The potatoes scattered. Petunia watched the grass anxiously, expecting a potato to attack her at any moment.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked, her forehead tight with concern.

"Those, those _things_," Petunia said. "I wasn't doing anything, and then all of a sudden there were hundreds of them, and they…"

Molly had a rather peculiar expression on her face. "The gnomes? You were making all that racket over a bunch of _gnomes_?"

Petunia nodded, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.

"Gnomes?" Molly repeated. "I thought You-Know-Who himself was—or that you were being attacked by…" Molly sighed. "Just come back inside. The boys can de-gnome the garden this afternoon."

* * *

Petunia made certain to spend as little time as possible outside of the house after the potato-gnome incident. She stayed close to Molly, and kept Vernie with her whenever possible. The twins, she had learned, were less likely to attack her if their mother was in range.

If Petunia hadn't sworn long ago that she hated witches and wizards and everything about their way of life, then she might have been tempted to say she'd grown to like Molly. The witch wasn't so bad if you ignored the witch part; she was remarkably ordinary. Molly spent her days knitting, answering letters, and listening to the sordid soap operas that played over the wizard's radio. Molly, torn between pitying Petunia and being cross with her, had more or less accepted Petunia as a companion. Besides, the witch had a soft spot for Vernie, and perhaps babies in general, Petunia suspected.

Petunia became quite adept at ignoring all things magical in the house. The most difficult thing to overlook was the random disappearing and appearing of Arthur and Percy, really, mostly Percy. He never used a door if her could help it, and Ginny kept threatening to hex him the next time he popped into his room without checking to see if she was decently attired. All in all, Petunia found the appearing/disappearing most disquieting.

However, Petunia ignored the situation with her family at Privet Drive best of all. She rang every morning and left messages, but neither Vernon nor Dudley ever tried to contact her in return. Apart from those few minutes a day, Petunia didn't think about her husband or eldest son. Overwrought as she felt, Petunia knew she'd burst into tears if she dwelled too long on her family, and she wasn't about to look so weak in front of a bunch of magic people.

Ten days had passed since Petunia and Vernie had arrived at the Weasley home. Petunia thought she had the daily routine down, but this morning, after she'd put Vernie down for his nap, Molly wasn't knitting in her usual spot. Instead, Petunia found Molly in the kitchen, stirring an enormous bowl of batter.

"What are you making?" Petunia asked. She sat at the table, paying no attention to the eggs floating about the bowl.

"Harry's birthday cake, of course," Molly said.

Today was Harry's birthday, then. Petunia had thought it was sometime in June. "Oh," she said.

"He likes chocolate, doesn't he?" Molly pulled out a smaller bowl filled to the brim with melted chocolate. She added it to the cake batter.

Harry, not liking chocolate? Petunia sincerely doubted that any child of Lily's wouldn't love chocolate more than breathing. "I suppose he does," Petunia said.

Molly hummed while she made the cake. When it was time to put the frosting on, Harry and the four younger Weasleys zeroed in on the kitchen, drawn by a supernatural sense that told them when they were most likely to successfully sneak a finger into the bowl of frosting. Molly deftly repelled all such attempts at thievery, and sent her children and Harry away to ready themselves for the party.

"A party?" Petunia had just brought Vernie downstairs so Ginny could have her room back for a bit. "I didn't know there was going to be a party."

"Why wouldn't there be a party?" Molly touched up the "Happy Birthday Harry" on the cake for the third time in as many minutes. "It's not going to be a very big one. Hermione and her parents, a few people from Hogwarts, and Bill's in London on Gringotts business, so he'll put in an hour or two. And Arthur's going to try to get away from his desk long enough to join us for cake and presents."

Molly set the cake aside and started making dishes for the party. For a so-called "small party," it looked as though Molly was planning to feed an army.

Petunia winced involuntarily as cream sauce poured out of Molly's wand. She focused her eyes on the table and said, "How will you manage the food? This table would be too small, I should think."

"We'll eat outside, there's plenty of room in the garden," Molly said. She finished with a salad, and waved her wand over the bowl—a spell to ensure that it would stay crisp? Petunia decided that she did not want to know.

Molly glanced at the clock. "Guests will be arriving any minute, now," she said, frowning. "I knew I should have started earlier."

Petunia couldn't see how Molly had come to this conclusion; the kitchen clock only showed a few bizarre phrases with one hand pointing at whichever was appropriate. The clock in the living room was even worse; it had more hands than Petunia cared to count, at least a half dozen, none pointing to numbers. Petunia was quite thankful for her normal watch, which had the correct number of hands, each pointing to mundane numerals.

While Petunia was puzzling over how witches and wizards could tell how long to cook a roast without a proper timer, the twins and Ginny meandered into the kitchen. As far as Petunia could tell, the twins hadn't cleaned up at all, but they were exchanging secretive grins. One of them, Petunia couldn't guess whether it was Fred or George, edged over to the cake; the other circled the dishes Molly had finished making. Ginny, unlike her brothers, had changed her clothes and seemed to be employing the tactic of trying to look nice without looking as though she was trying to look nice.

At this observation, Petunia's penchant for gossip, having lately been denied its customary sustenance, was roused. Who was Ginny trying to impress? Surely she wouldn't be making such an effort for family alone. Petunia had searched the girl's room from top to bottom on several occasions, and hadn't found anything to suggest that Ginny had a boyfriend or a crush. In fact, the only scraps of newspaper she'd been able to find were old and dusty, as though it had been a couple of years since their last handling, and those papers had only made oblique references to "the boy who lived."

While Petunia was trying to divine the secrets of Ginny's psyche by analyzing the arrangement of her sock drawer, the twins were drawing close to their intended targets. Fortunately for everyone who was not Fred or George, Molly caught her wayward sons before they could act.

"What do you two think you're doing?" Molly asked, tapping her wand on the countertop. Both twins froze at their mother's voice.

"Nothing much…"

"Just looking at all the food…"

"It smells great, Mum…"

"But…"

"We've got these new spices…"

"That can really give food a kick…"

"And we thought we'd add just a little…"

"To help make Harry's party _extra_ special."

The twins smiled innocently at their mother. Petunia could almost see the halos above their heads. Molly was not fooled.

"If you truly want to help with Harry's party," Molly said. "Then you can go to the road and wait for Hermione's car. But, if I find that _either_ of you tried to use your ridiculous tricks on Hermione's parents, then you _both_ can forget about having cake with the rest of us; you'll be too busy cleaning up."

Ginny snickered at her brothers' identical expressions of consternation. Petunia might've found it funny too, if she were less concerned about the safety of her impending lunch.

"But, _Mum_..." The twins whined.

"No 'buts'! Now, _go_." Molly purposefully turned her back on her sons, daring them to argue with her.

The twins slunk out of the kitchen, their whispered conversation too low for Petunia's ears. Petunia was very glad that she was not "Hermione" or one of the girl's parents. She did not want to ever be at the mercy of the twins.

The fireplace flared; two people tumbled out, one after the other. Ginny and Molly greeted the witch and wizard like old friends.

The wizard certainly was old, Petunia thought. The first to emerge from the fireplace, he wore dusty, purple robes. The wizard's white beard reached to his waist; the witch looked to be just past middle-aged and wore her black hair in a very severe bun. When the wizard turned to introduce himself to Petunia, she made an on-the-spot decision: Petunia did not like Albus Dumbledore.

This was the wizard who decreed it "unsafe" for Petunia and Vernie to return home. This was the wizard who decided that Petunia wasn't to have any input on her life, and dictated that she and her baby son were to stay in a house full of magic people. This was the wizard whose advice Lily had followed to the letter, and now Lily's son did the same. Lily was dead, but Harry was still alive—for now. As far as Petunia could tell, she had, at most, a fifty percent chance of survival when trusting this wizard. Petunia didn't like those odds—but did she think for a moment that she was capable of defending herself and her son against evil wizards?

Petunia glared at the back of Dumbledore's head. The witch hadn't got around to introducing herself yet—though Petunia thought she looked rather familiar—but Petunia escaped the kitchen before she had to talk to anyone else. Luckily, Harry and Ron came into the kitchen as she was going out, covering her exit.

* * *

Wizards did not have exciting parties.

Petunia had been observing the goings-on from Ginny's window ever since she left the kitchen. She wasn't certain what she had expected to be happening, but everyone walking around, doing nothing more than chatting amiably, wasn't it. The closest thing to an argument she'd seen was when a bushy-haired girl and Ron bickered briefly about something Petunia couldn't discern until Harry laughed at both of them and the tension disappeared. The twins hadn't even tried to pull any of their pranks; Petunia hoped that didn't mean they were planning to turn everyone into fire-breathing newts when it was time for cake.

Petunia's stomach grumbled at the thought of cake. Molly was actually a very good cook, for a witch, that is, and Petunia was looking forward to the cake. In fact, Petunia was looking forward to eating. She checked on Vernie in his cot; he was wide-awake and gave her a toothless baby smile. Petunia smiled back and picked him up. Vernie liked meeting new people, regardless of whether or not they were normal, and the Weasleys were always nicer to her when she had her baby with her.

Molly wasn't having a sit-down lunch; it was one of those buffet-style stand-and-eat-and-mingle all at once systems. This was both good and bad for Petunia: on the one hand, she could grab a plate and steal away into the house again, but on the other, she would face the challenge of doing everything one-handed without a Weasley sitting next to her, conveniently offering to hold Vernie while she ate.

"Oh, let me hold him for you!"

But then, perhaps a Weasley might just pop up out of nowhere (or, more likely, trying to escape a boring-looking discussion with Percy). Petunia handed Vernie to Ginny, reasonably confident of the girl's baby-holding capabilities. All of the Weasleys Petunia'd met thus far had held Vernie correctly, even the twins (though Petunia hadn't let them hold her baby for long). This was due to having a legion of toddler-aged cousins, or so she'd been told.

Petunia eyed Ginny and Vernie. No sooner had Ginny taken the baby than she was flanked by the bushy-haired girl. They both cooed nonsense words at Vernie, who grinned and gurgled charmingly. Harry and Ron looked at the girls as though they'd both sprouted second heads.

She was so caught up in watching Vernie that Petunia almost dropped her salad when a voice next to her said,

"You've got an adorable baby."

"Thank-you," Petunia responded automatically. Glancing sideways at who had spoken, Petunia had another near-salad plate loss.

"Bill Weasley," he said, giving Petunia a toothy grin.

Petunia could have guessed as much; Molly had lamented to her one morning that her eldest son was never going to give her any grandchildren if he didn't cut his hair, lose the earring, and dress normally—normally for a wizard, anyhow. The man standing next to her had long, red hair, an earring from the mouth of some animal, and from a distance he might have looked to be wearing regular clothes, but up close Petunia could tell they were made from some animal's hide—Petunia doubted it was cow.

"Petunia Dursley," she said, returning his smile weakly. Petunia couldn't keep her eyes off the earring; it looked too big to be from a lion or tiger; perhaps it was from a shark? Petunia'd never seen a shark's tooth before.

"It's a dragon's tooth," Bill said.

"Oh." Petunia turned back to Vernie and the two girls. She'd been caught staring; Petunia didn't know whether to be embarrassed or mortified that dragons existed and people went around wearing dragons' fangs in their ears. "I didn't think dragons were real." Petunia sneaked a look at Bill.

His hand floating to the earring of its own accord, Bill said, "How could you not have thought dragons were real? I know you're a muggle, but you're a muggle who lives with Harry Potter…" Bill shook his head. "It's just hard to believe that you wouldn't know about dragons, especially after what happened with Norbert. He never told you about the dragon?"

"He isn't a talkative boy," Petunia said. "And, Harry understands that I am not entirely… comfortable with talk of such things as dragons."

"Well, dragons aren't too dangerous—don't let my mother convince you otherwise, she sometimes likes to get everyone as wound up as she is—but I don't know too much about them. Now, Charlie could tell you all about dragons." Bill smiled. "Give you a lecture that'd put you to sleep faster than Percy can—I would know; he does it to me every time I buy a pair of boots."

"Why?" Petunia's mind searched briefly for where she'd heard the name "Charlie" before remembering; he was Molly's second son. In the name of all that was holy, what had possessed Molly to have _seven_ children? Petunia loved her own sons more than she could say, but with the memory of Vernie's birth still so close at hand, she couldn't imagine having any more.

"He thinks it's cruel. He's almost eaten or burned on a daily basis, but still thinks it's cruel, even after the dragon's already dead." Bill hooked his thumbs into his pockets. "Dragon hide's great for blocking curses and things. I don't know what I'd do without it."

"Curses? It can block them?" Petunia looked at Bill's jacket again. She wondered if it could have blocked the spell that she'd been hit with in the alley.

"It doesn't block as much as weaken. It's better at protecting you from spilled potions and muggle acids," Bill said. "It's so thick that it doesn't let much through—here, feel it." Bill offered his sleeve to Petunia. The dragon hide did feel quite thick, and heavy as well.

"How can you stand to wear it? In this weather, that is," Petunia asked. It wasn't too hot in the garden, but it was still summer. Petunia would've melted in such attire.

"A cooling charm." Petunia's face must have looked doubtful, so Bill said, "It's not as hard to cast on dragon hide as most people think. In fact, it can sometimes work a little too well. Here, let me show you. "

For some reason, Petunia briefly lost control over her voice and Bill had taken off his jacket and removed the empty plate from her hands before she could say anything to stop him. He draped the jacket around her shoulders.

"See? It's almost too cold," Bill said.

It wasn't a matter of the jacket being too cold. "It feels strange," Petunia said. As though part of her was in an air-conditioned room and the rest wasn't. Petunia did not like the sensation; she did not want to be wearing an enchanted piece of clothing.

"It takes some getting used to," Bill admitted. His hand still rested on her shoulder.

Looking past Bill's head, Petunia saw the twins whispering together. One of them kept glancing at Petunia and Bill. "Your brothers are staring. I think you should have the jacket back," she said.

Bill didn't turn 'round to see the twins. "Never mind them—it's probably because you look better in it than I do." He smiled.

Petunia felt a ghost of a blush working its way onto her face. Was he _flirting_ with her? Why, she was a married woman, with _children_, one of them only six weeks old.

Before Petunia could sputter any sort of response, she felt a second hand on her shoulder. It was Harry's headmaster.

"I trust I'm not interrupting anything," Dumbledore said. "But I had hoped to speak with Mrs. Dursley for a few moments."

"What-ever about?" Petunia stammered. She took a step back from Bill, and shrugged out of his jacket.

"A few things. Perhaps we could have our discussion in the house?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. They looked as cold as glass to Petunia.

Bill took the unsubtle hint. "In case I'm gone before you're done, it was nice meeting you, Petunia." He shook her hand lightly. "Professor," he said, inclining his head towards Dumbledore. Bill then disappeared into the sea of redheads.

"Let me get my son, first," Petunia said.

"Take your time."

Petunia hurried over to Vernie. As soon as she held her son, Petunia felt a fresh burst of embarrassment over Bill and his jacket. She had a six-week-old son, for pity's sake. Besides that, she was old enough to be his… well, Petunia didn't know how old he was, but she still felt like the woman in that awful American movie Yvonne had forced her to watch—the one where a teacher tried to seduce a boy half her age.

It was cooler inside the house. The wizard was waiting for her in the kitchen.

Petunia sat down across from Dumbledore, trying to leave as much space between them as possible without appearing rude. Vernie yawned and closed his eyes, ready for another nap, it seemed. Petunia watched her son's every move, unwilling to look the wizard in the eye.

"He's taking this quite well, isn't he?" To anyone else, Dumbledore's voice exuded kindness. Petunia knew better; he was trying to manipulate her into wanting to trust him.

"He's too young to know any better," Petunia said, keeping her head bent.

The wizard chuckled. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. Babies are more aware than we give them credit for being. More powerful, too."

Petunia resisted the urge to glare at the wizard. "He's too young to know any better," she repeated.

"As you wish it, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said. The wizard altered his approach. "It is not feasible for you to stay here for much longer," he said.

"Then let me return home," Petunia said. She raised her eyes to meet those of the wizard. "I have no desire to stay here."

"Sending you home is not a viable option. You see, Mrs. Dursley, you no longer have a home."

"What? Has something happened to…?"

"No, your husband and elder son are both perfectly well, as is their home. But, their home is no longer your home. The moment you left Privet Drive, your heart stopped believing it was home." Dumbledore laced his fingers together on the table.

Petunia shook her head. "I don't understand."

"I do not expect you shall ever understand," Dumbledore said. "You must know this much: Privet Drive is no longer your home, and as long as that is so, I cannot permit you or Harry to return. The spell cast over the house is broken."

"Broken…" Petunia murmured. Bits and pieces of information swam in her mind. Vernie squirmed in his sleep. "Can't it just—can't we undo it? You're a wizard, are you not? Can't you take the wizard part out of my son?"

"I cannot," Dumbledore said. "It is no more possible to strip young Vernon of his powers than it is to endow one such as yourself with magical abilities."

"Then let us _forget_. If my family and I didn't know about Vernie, then everything would be all right. We could go home."

"And what would happen in eleven years? It would be a temporary solution."

"Eleven years is long enough," Petunia said.

"It would not work," Dumbledore said. "A memory charm is a highly complex spell when something so shocking is intended to be erased. Even then, only the minds of you and your family would be affected. It is not your mind which rejects Privet Drive."

Petunia swallowed. There was an odd stiffness in her upper lip. "Where, then, would you have us go? If we cannot stay here nor return home—where else is there?"

"You shall accompany Harry to Hogwarts, of course. There is no safer place, and better yet, Harry feels at home there," Dumbledore said.

"I cannot stay at his school." For some reason, the wizard's face was looking a bit blurry. "I cannot be surrounded by them."

"You must," Dumbledore said. His voice softened. "You and Harry are tied by Lily's spell—even I do not know precisely what she did make it so. With you, he is protected, and in these times, there is need enough for as much protection as we can manage," Dumbledore paused. "Has anyone informed you of Sirius Black?"

"No, I don't think…" Petunia dimly recalled having heard the name, but so much had happened recently that her thoughts had become a bit muddled.

"Black was James Potter's closest friend," Dumbledore said. Petunia resisted an urge to roll her eyes. What did she care about her insolent nephew's no good father? "Black is the reason Harry's parents are dead."

That got Petunia's attention.

"For almost twelve years Black has been in prison, ever since he was captured by the Ministry. Several weeks ago, he escaped from Azkaban. Azkaban is—"

"I know what Azkaban is," Petunia snapped. "What's this Black have to do with me and my son?"

Dumbledore took a slow breath. "I—as well as many others—believe Black is after Harry, to finish what his master started. Additionally, there has been some unusual activity amongst Voldemort's old supporters." The wizard leveled his piercing gaze to Petunia's. "It may be that they will use you or your son to get at Harry. It is safest for all if you and young Vernon accompany Harry to Hogwarts. Lily's spell encompasses all who share her blood, and Hogwarts has many of its own protections."

Petunia was mute. She didn't look at the wizard, she couldn't look at her son. Everything seemed strange, unfocused and out of proportion. Noise from the garden leaked into the kitchen. The wizard was suddenly standing.

"They are readying for cake and presents. Shall I say you'll be along in a moment?" Dumbledore asked.

Petunia couldn't think of anything to say. Vernie was waking; he wiggled in her arms. The wizard left.

She might have sat with Vernie for hours, moping and feeling sorry for herself, but Petunia was interrupted before long. Molly buzzed into the kitchen and rooted around in drawers, searching for something. The witch had a stack full of napkins balanced on one arm before she saw Petunia.

"Are you all right?"

Petunia shook her head.

"Now, dear," Molly plucked a napkin from her stack and offered it to Petunia, "it isn't so bad, really. Trust Dumbledore; he knows what's best."

Petunia wanted to tell Molly that it was all a lie, Dumbledore might know a thing or two when it came to tricks and spells, but he knew nothing about her, or about what was best for her family. Lily could surely attest to that, couldn't she? But the words would not come; her throat was somehow blocked. She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin.

"Why don't you go and splash some cold water on your face? I'll take him," Molly hoisted Vernie from Petunia's hold, "and you can join us in a few minutes."

Petunia must have nodded, because Molly then said, "Don't worry; I won't let them start the presents until you're back." Then, Molly and Vernie were gone from the kitchen.

Petunia took her time getting to the bathroom. The water did leave her feeling a bit better. Her reflection didn't look quite as good; her eyes were pink and puffed, but the rest of her face was pale. The fine lines around her mouth and eyes seemed much sharper than usual. She rubbed her face hard with a towel. It helped, a little.

Satisfied that she was as presentable as possible, Petunia made to go back down the stairs, but paused. Molly had said they wouldn't start the presents without her; did that mean Petunia was supposed to have a present to give as well? She hurried into Ginny's room, and peeked out the window. There was a stack of presents on the table, not so many as to rival Dudley's yearly haul, but more than Petunia had ever given Harry during all his years at Privet Drive put together.

Petunia stepped back from the window and reached for her purse. There wasn't much available; old receipts, a comb, a pen with a chewed cap. The pen still had some ink, it would have to do. She almost left with the pen, but then Petunia saw the blue suitcase, tucked behind the door, nearly out of sight. Of course, how could she have _not_ thought of it?

The suitcase was fairly light, as Petunia hadn't seen reason to keep it packed. She opened it on the bed and yanked at the inner lining. It gave easily. The glue was old, and not of a very high quality. Petunia slid her hand between the lining and the metal body of the suitcase. After a moment, she pulled out a thin, wood stick, about two inches shy of a foot in length.

There wasn't anything to wrap it in, so Petunia uneasily tucked it into her pocket. It felt uncomfortable and didn't really fit, but she tried to ignore it. She rushed back to the garden before she could change her mind.

Molly handed her both Vernie and a large slice of cake without a word. Petunia took the stick from her pocket and tucked it next to Harry's pile, and then sat on one of the only available chairs, which luckily put a little distance between herself and the rest of the party. A quick survey of heads informed her that at least Bill had already left, so she wouldn't need to worry about making a fool of herself again. Unfortunately, Dumbledore was still present.

Petunia watched Harry open his gifts. She couldn't make sense out of most of them; what good was the package of sweets the twins had given him if he wasn't supposed to eat them? Petunia wasn't certain what one was supposed to do with a "broom-stick servicing kit," but she suspected it was something not entirely appropriate. At least someone had given him a book. Books were normal enough, even if they weren't the gift of choice for thirteen-year-old boys. After all of his presents had been opened, Harry finally spotted the wand.

Harry frowned as he picked it up. "Whose is this?" he asked, peering at the stick closely, as though he expected to see someone's name on it.

"It's yours," Petunia said. Suddenly, everyone's head swiveled to stare at her. Petunia tried to keep a sour expression from spreading over her face. Didn't wizards and witches know how rude it was to stare?

"What do you mean?" Harry's fingers closed around the wand.

"It belongs to you now," Petunia said. Really, did being magic make people lose their manners? "It was Lily's, and… well, _I_ haven't got any use for it."

Harry's eyes widened. "But where did you get it?"

"Lily gave it to me." Petunia resisted the urge to shrug. She had no need to explain herself to Harry, to any of them, for that matter.

"You've had it all this time!" The bushy-haired girl had a surprisingly loud voice. "The Ministry's been looking for it for ages. There's a _ton_ of people who don't do anything but sit around all day theorizing about what happened to Lily Potter's first wand—if she used it to save Harry, did You-Know-Who steal it to hide the spell."

"Miss Granger," said one of the witches—she was the one who'd come with Dumbledore through the fireplace. "No one had seen the wand for years before James and Lily died, and there's little reason to say Lily had used it at all since Hogwarts."

The bushy-haired girl frowned, but stopped trying to bore holes in Petunia's skull with her eyes. She turned and began whispering furiously to Harry and Ron. Ron hung on her every word, but Harry only had eyes for the wand. Bit by bit, the rest of the partygoers returned to their conversations, and Petunia breathed a sigh of relief.

Petunia was content to sit with Vernie and eat cake, for a little while, at least. Molly made good cake—almost as good as some of the cakes Petunia had made. She was tempted to get a second slice, never mind the baby-weight she was still trying to lose. Until, that is, Petunia felt a tickle in her left nostril. She sneezed, careful to direct her face away from Vernie's.

Vernie made surprised noises, not exactly crying, but not far from it. Petunia hastened to comfort him, but she sneezed once, then twice more. What on earth was happening to her? Vernie was getting more and more distraught, and she couldn't stop sneezing. Again, people were turning to stare at her.

"Petunia, are you ill?" Molly asked.

Petunia tried to answer, but found she couldn't stop sneezing long enough to speak. Vernie had begun to cry.

"Petunia," Molly paused, eyes darkening. "Fred! George! What have you two done this time!?"


End file.
